


It Was a Long Story

by seeing_blue



Series: Wait, What? [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Al's Eternal Suffering for Being the Only One to Know the References She Makes, Angst, Canon Divergence Sometimes, Drabble, F/M, Fluffity fluff, Hallah Lynne is Hallah Lynne, Her Inquisitorialness, I don't know what to do with all my thoughts so I'm cramming it here, I'm Racking My Brain to Come Up with Witty Tags But I'm All Out, I'm Sorry if I Accidentally Rip Your Heart Out, It gets better I promise, Periods, Pranks, Snippets, What If Al Romanced Somebody Other Than The Egg, angsty angst, lots of teasing, puns, seriously though there's too much rattling in my noggin about this fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 54,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5234606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeing_blue/pseuds/seeing_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little moments and different perspectives from the life of Alaran Lavellan, the Otherworlder-turned-Inquisitor-and-Elf.  Some take place in both "Wait, What?" "Hold On a Second," and "Sighs and Raised Eyebrows."  </p><p>Many of these ideas came to me either after I had posted a chapter or it didn't entirely fit in with the main storyline.  Hence there being alternate universes, all of which are presented to you by Hallah Lynne.  There will be plenty of shenanigans and ridiculousness.  Don't miss out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tackling

"... But then again, I may be overstating that those who follow the Qun are mindless beasts," Solas said in the clipped, polite tone he had learned to master over the ages.

"Solas," Alaran sighed tiredly, her head turned sideways to glance back at him. "Knock it off."  He chose to ignore the lightning that crackled in her violet eyes.

"You know," Iron Bull drawled out in that ever-so relaxed tone of his, "for an elven apostate you sure like to run your mouth to places where it shouldn't be."

"And for a Ben-Hassrath you certainly act like a Tal-Vashoth," Solas quipped back, foregoing any usage of subtlety towards the Qunari.  

"Solas, I'm gonna tackle you if you don't start filtering those oh-so nice words of yours," Alaran sang airily.  What had gotten into him, again?  He was higher than throwing low insults at a Qunari who saved his life more than once in battle.  What had been the change?

Ah. Yes.

_Her._

After Solas was informed that it had been both Alaran and Sera that drew the giant butt on his cabin back at Haven, his nerves had been on edge.  She was childish.  Foolish.  Ignorant.  That Mark on her hand was unfit to be wielded by such a girl.

"You will tackle me?" he snorted.  "And I suppose I should go blustering about as Commander Cullen did when you straddled him--"

Alaran interrupted him by pressing a finger to her ear and exclaiming loudly, "What's that?  The King, who is bald, elven, rude, and racist, is in danger from an enemy sniper?  I'M ON IT, SER!"

Solas had time to widen his eyes before Alaran collided with his body.  She wrapped her arms around his waist to the point of nearly crushing his ribs.  The greatsword strapped to her back knocked its hilt right on his forehead.  The ground in the Storm Coast was not known for its softness; Solas felt wet, jagged rocks jab into his back, legs, and head.  He also broke Alaran's' fall, who, for being as slight as she was, carried a great amount of sheer  _force._

She pushed herself up by placing one frigidly cold hand on his cheek and using Solas as an opposing object.  He couldn't help but let out a soft snarl of protest and anger.  As soon as Alaran was sitting upright on Solas, she placed the other hand on his face and anxiously patted his cheeks and head and nose.  "Mister King, are you alright?" she asked, but the question was full of sarcasm and mock.  "Mister King, there was an arrow that flew right over us!  I'm tellin' ya, Mister King!  It's a good thing I have such good reflexes, otherwise you'd be dead!"

 _"Get.  Off.  Me,"_ Solas growled venomously as the rest of the group was nearly dying from laughter.  He viciously forced out of his mind that Alaran was, in fact, straddling him with those toned, muscled thighs of hers.

In lack of better terms, a shit-eating smirk curved Alaran's lips and exposed a slight dimple on one side.  Her pointed ears twitched slightly.  "As you command, Mister King," she managed to say with an air of humility, and easily off Solas.  His entire body was aching, especially where the hilt of Alaran's sword smacked him.  

Just bruise his ego even more, Iron Bull lifted him to his feet like a small child.  Solas felt his ears get embarrassingly hot.  If magic worked on the Herald, he would have wreathed her in solid ice by now.  

"Don't worry, Solas," Iron Bull said amicably, laying a giant gray hand on the mage's shoulder. "If Boss really wanted to hurt you, she'd have gone right for the privates."

"I only did that with you because you told me I had small tits even for an elf," Alaran said over her shoulder as she walked back to the front of the group, but her words held no malice. Only amusement.

Iron Bull could get away with saying _that_ and still be considered her friend?

The spy saw the question on Solas' face and chuckled. "She got her revenge, believe me."

"Yeah," Blackwall commented as he managed to reign in his deep, guffawing laughter, "for once it was the little elf who made The Iron Bull walk funny for a few days."

"Swift kick to the nads does it for ya," Sera added in with a cackle.  "Could ya do that to elfy next time he's a  _pish_ this and  _pish_ that?  I mean, if he even has any."

Solas gripped his staff tightly to ensure it wouldn't rap the city elf on the side of the head.

They all laughed for a short while longer but soon moved onto other topics, seeming to have forgotten all about Solas' tussle with the Inquisitor, as well as the reason for it in the first place.

Friends. He had to be better to them.

...Even Alaran.


	2. Periods

I woke up to a familiar feeling.

A familiar, dreadful feeling.

One of the cool things about being an elf was that I had better nocturnal vision than any of the other races combined.  So I didn't need light to lift up the blankets and look between my legs to confirm my fears.

Yep. There it was.

A dark stain of blood coming from my elfy lady bits.

It had been months since my unceremonious landing at Haven, and I hadn't gotten my period once.  I wasn't even sure elves _had_  periods.  And nobody ever brought it up, because in Ferelden if you mention a fart ladies faint.  If any of the women got them, I sure didn't take notice, and I was also pretty sure they didn't have medieval tampons lying around, either.

I looked to the occupied bedroll beside me.  Awaking Sera meant that I would have to risk the chance of her being delirious as she woke, as well as her blabbing to the rest of the Inner Circle about my predicament.  I loved the girl to death, but there was no way in hell she could keep a secret.  And as much as Varric and I had bonded, I doubted he'd be particularly comfortable with telling me what to do when I was literally bleeding from my body.   _Ugh._ I knew I should have brought Cassandra of Vivienne.

But even if I had, they would have thought it strange that a full grown woman didn't know how to handle her period.  I probably would have lied and told them that elves didn't get their periods until later in life, but even then that would have raised questions.

There was only one person I could go to.  The person who knew where I was from and would, to a degree, understand the situation I was currently faced with.

So, groaning in defeat, I willed myself out from under my blankets and into the cold night to go and talk to the egg on watch duty.

Solas was quietly perched by the low campfire, sitting in a cross legged position with his staff over his lap.  I had difficulty being embarrassed about bodily functions; being in a hospital for an incurable disease made one mostly comfortable with such things. Well, it did for me, anyways.  Then again, my whole "Shame-O-Meter" was always pretty low.

"Solas," I said quietly. He turned his head.  The firelight gleamed off his bald scalp.  Much mysterious.

"Herald? Is there something you require?"

"A tampon, but you probably don't have one," I sighed.  "Or a pad. But I'm guessing you don't have that either."

He raised a confused eyebrow.  "Pardon?"

"I started my period.  I need something.  Whatever it is you people use for it."

"... I'm sorry, I do not understand."  From the look on Solas' face, he was starting to think I was messing with him in some way, which only made him begin to show the signs of being mad.  

I bit back a sigh.  "Menstruation.  You know, where the uterine wall basically rips itself apart in retaliation of a woman not using the egg it gave to her?  Where the lower abdomen becomes a bloody battlefield?  Where it feels like a fat guy is sitting on your pelvis?"

Was that a... _flush_ I saw on the elf's face?  Oh, this was just too _good_ to be true. "You never told me that elves even _went_ through the same process as human women," I said accusingly.  "And here I was, hoping that we never had to do anything about it.  But, from the way my lower body is cramping and how my trousers are now unfortunately stained, that hope is dead." I crossed my arms. "So is there anything you have for it?"

Solas gulped-- _gulped--_ before continuing. He stood and walked stiffly over to his pack nearby. "Yes, I believe so. Most women take royal elfroot for the bleeding."

"Seriously?" I stated as I walked over. "We don't have that where I'm from! That's so not fair. All we have is structured cotton to shove up our vaginas with a string at the end to pull it out in a couple of hours."

Solas made a noise that I wasn't sure conveyed which emotion, but it certainly wasn't a positive one. I patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry; it absorbs blood, not plugs it. That'd be gross _and_ dangerous.  You know, TSS is like a deathly fear of mine."

He pulled out a pouch full of what I assumed to be royal elfroot and fished out a leaf. I made a face. "What, did you expect me to prepare a nice kettle of tea for you with some sugar?" Solas questioned in his I'm-an-ass voice. I glared at him, but didn't break eye contact as I grabbed the leaf and shoved it into my mouth, tasting the bitterness and dirt.  I _so_ wanted to spit it back out but I couldn't because my want to be spiteful was greater.

Once I managed to get it all swallowed Solas handed me the pouch. "Ingest one every four you six hours. That should work."

"Thanks," I said, putting some amount of sincerity into the word. "Now, before I go I should probably ask if social culture thinks it okay to ingest such things in public, or if it is inappropriate to do so."

"Discretion is preferable, but isn't wholly banned. Do what you must."

"Okay. And how long do elf periods last?"

"Shouldn't you be asking Sera this?"  Solas looked like he had been done with this conversation for eons, now.

"I'm supposed to have been elven all my life, remember? They'll think something is up, no matter how  I go about it. Just stop being awkward and give me an answer."

"Fine," he sighed.  "If I can recall correctly, it only lasts one to two days.  Three at the most."

"Seriously?  That's awesome.  Every six months?"

"More or less so, yes."

"Sweet." I could already feel a cooling around my lower abdomen. Then I yawned, feeling fatigue wash over me once more.  But before I retreated back to my tent I had to ask Solas, "Does the Vagina Anchor have periods, too?  Like, am I supposed to expect something to come out of it?"

The way Solas' nose was crinkled in frustration and disgust was worth the completely stupid question.

 


	3. War Room

Cullen watched as Alaran's eyes darted over the map in the War Room.  Neither he, Leliana, or Josephine ever mustered up the heart to tell the Inquisitor that she made truly odd noises as she thought.  Once she had taken on the official title of leading the organization, he thought that some of her old habits would fade away.  But, like many things, Cullen had thought wrong.  If anything, they only worsened, especially when she took up the subconscious practice of tapping her fingers on the table to some odd beat before moving one of their marker pieces to a different position.  

"Commander," Alaran said suddenly, stopping her soft whirring noises in between her teeth as if she had never done it in the first place.  At least it was better than the scuffing, chipmunk sounds that made Cullen cringe. "I want Judicael's Crossing to be repaired."  Her violet eyes met his.  "And a  _good_ one, this time.  We'll help direct funding towards getting the stonework transferred there this time of the year, but Emprise du Lion is in desperate need of it being whole, again."

"This time?" Cullen asked, still stumped on her words.   Alaran raised a slightly incredulous eyebrow.

"Yes, Commander, _this time."_ Her tone was sarcastic, but there was still playfulness and kindness still in her eyes that assured him she meant no bite.  Whenever she spoke to Morrigan, though...that was a different matter entirely.  "Judicael's Crossing is not some little bridge you can just throw some wooden boards over and call it good-to-go. It's over a giant _gorge,_ if you didn'tmremember, not a chest high river."

Damn.  Cullen felt himself flushing.   _Seriously_ flushing.  To make it worse, Leliana, Josephine, and Morrigan didn't bother to hide their grins.  The Orlesian Spymaster even went so far as to softly snicker.  "I...uh..." he sputtered.  "Yes, Inquisitor, right away.  I'll see to it that my men--"

"What? Punch the bridge into existence?" Alaran cut off, but there was a smirk on her face.  Unfortunately, Cullen didn't notice its presence, so he scowled while the women kept from laughing out loud. Alaran grabbed a loose marker lying on the table and began twirling it between porcelain, scarred fingers. "I'm just joshin ya, Cullen. Giving ya gravy!"

Her strange terminology threw him off even more, and she _knew_ that.  "Maker, Alaran,  _must you?"_ he finally said in an exasperated burst.  She, in turn, allowed a bright, rare grin to expose itself.

"Sorry, Cullen."  She didn't sound sorry.  "I'll get you some hair product to make up for it."

Josephine's hand flew to her mouth when a snort escaped her.  "I know a merchant who sells the best kinds," Leliana put in.   _Maker's breath, these women will be the death of him._

"Can you do your hair to look dark and mysterious and not so..."  Alaran waved a hand as she came up with the right words.  "Oh, I don't know,  _Chantry Boy?_ Instead of the golden commander everybody sees you as, I think the Inquisition could fare better if we had a brooding, angsty Cullen Rutherford with a troubled past and a jaded heart that really just wants to be loved."  Her violet eyes lit up.  Cullen groaned.

"Inquisitor, please..." he pleaded, but it was no use.  Alaran was already climbing atop the war table and lightly tip-toeing across the map and avoiding markers pinned into the wood until she was looking down at Cullen.  He stood there and suffered, because he knew that it was no use trying to get her to stop.  

Alaran ran her fingers through his style hair, which had already been causing trouble in staying down this morning.  He sighed heavily.  "You know, I love Solas to death, but it's a shame I can't play with his hair.  Because, you know, he has none."  She ceased the motion and Cullen  _almost_ let himself breathe in relief at its ending, but then her hand furiously ruffled away everything he had tried so hard to make look nice.   _Then_ she stopped.  

"Definitely a brooding hairstyle," Leliana said as she folded her arms in observance.  Her blue eyes were dancing with mischievous delight.  

"You should do your hair like that more often, Commander," Morrigan said lowly as her yellow eyes examined his new look.  "Master Tethras would be writing novels on your character for years."

Alaran laughed at the thought.  "Goodbye,  _Swords & Shields,"_ she announced, "hello,  _Noodles & Nudity."_

The meeting came to an abrupt end when the women couldn't contain their laughter.  Cullen eventually bid them farewell and walked out as quickly as possible before Alaran could put him through even more torture.

-

Judicael's Crossing had been completed.  And, from the reports Cullen had received, it was as if it had never been destroyed.  He let himself to feel a bit of pride, and was silently eager to receive some commendation from Alaran.  She did not give it shallowly and in passing; everything she said had meaning and weight.  He admired that about her.

He strode to the War Room, where he had been told she would be.  It was not uncommon; the Inquisitor spent hours pouring all her energy over the war table preparing and planning for so many things Cullen was amazed at how she did it so well and still had time to spare to do other activities.  But he planned on simply giving Alaran the report she needed to sign and depart; he had his own duties to attend to, and as much as he hated to acknowledge it, he had little time to chat with her.  She should understand, though.

He opened the heavy door and immediately began speaking. "Inquisitor, I have the reports--"

Cullen stopped dead, feeling the worst kind of blush spread across his face and light it on fire.

Solas, the calm, collected elven apostate that was always respectful to Alaran in public, had her roughly pinned against the table.  Her bare legs wrapped firmly around his waist, and her trousers were strewn on the floor while his were bunched around his ankles. One of the mage's hands were up Alaran's tunic, the other on her ivory hip.

For a few agonizingly long moments, the three just stared at each other. Then Alaran lifted her head up and, with a smug smirk, said, "Commander, from the way you're staring it makes me think you want to join.   _I'm_ okay with it, but  _Solas_ might not be.  I could ask, though--"

"Da'len!" Solas hissed.  It was the first time since knowing him that the Commander had seen the elf's face as red as his most likely was.  Cullen managed to get his body working again and spun around, sputtering a hasty apology. He closed the door firmly behind him before rubbing his eyes in attempt to get the traumatizing, searing image out of his head. "Maker's breath," Cullen finally exclaimed when he regained some composure.  In a louder voice he yelled, "We _use_ that table, Alaran!"

Her cackle was the given response, followed by Solas speaking quickly in angry elven.

And, knowing Alaran, she would never let Cullen hear the end of it.

He dreaded the next War Room meeting.

 

 


	4. Pranks

"Sera," Alaran said, poking her head outside the tent, with a rare, wicked grin that looked even crazier in the firelight.  "It's go time."

Iron Bull watched with amusement as the two elves slipped into Solas' tent and began rustling around. He picked up a "careful!" and a "don't forget his staff!" as well as a, "wow, he's really muscly for an elfy mage."

A short while later Alaran gingerly stepped out with Solas in her arms.  He was securely wrapped up in a blanket, much like a sleeping child would be.  His head was lolled back and his mouth was gaping open.  Bull knew that Solas was already a deep sleeper because of his weird Fade shit he liked to do, but figured the elf wouldn't wake even if there was a dragon in the camp due to the sleeping powder Bull traded Alaran for so he could get some chocolate she had stashed away.

Sera followed with Solas' staff at arms length and a sneer curling her mouth.  At least they were arming him if anything arose.  Ah, he could have intervened and told the two girls that they should leave Solas alone, but for some reason he just couldn't.  Maybe it was because Bull didn't like him.  Yeah.  That was most likely it.

Alaran carried Solas with ease to the lake. She had unnatural strength, which, in any normal situation, should have concerned Iron Bull.  But compared to the rest of her odd traits, it was a minor detail.  Besides, right now the Herald was grappling with being a leader and a normal person. She knew she possessed the intelligence to lead, but her willingness was a struggle.  Bull couldn't blame her.  Although, he had a feeling that when the moment she was faced with the decision to lead, like they both knew she ultimately would, Alaran would choose to do so.

There were few other times Iron Bull could recall that made so many alarms go off in his Ben-Hassrath head like they did when he first met her on the Storm Coast.  Whether they were good or bad, he honestly couldn't tell.  And _that_ bugged him.  There was just something... off about Alaran.  It all had to do with the way she moved and how her shoulders slanted differently and the slightly different gait she walked with, as well as her manner of speech whenever she felt familiar with those she was talking to. But, if anything, Iron Bull heard the alarms the loudest when he looked into Alaran's violet eyes and saw the well of secrets she kept guarded and hidden.  They all had secrets, he knew.  Anybody who was anybody had a few stinkers festering in their hearts, but Alaran guarded it to the point that it was blatantly obvious.  Maybe not to the others, but especially to him and the Spymaster.  Varric had inklings, too, but his neutrality kept him from prodding further than typical questions storytellers wanted answers to.

And then there was the way Alaran and Solas acted around each other.  It was something akin to former lovers threatening to reveal the other's secrets to the world out of spite and revenge, but kept quiet for their own sake.  But Iron Bull would catch Solas, sometimes, watching Alaran from the corner of his eye as she relaxed and shifted from her calm, serious persona to the quirky, odd, witty elf Bull had come to enjoy.  When Solas did look at Alaran that way, it held no venom or annoyance.  The mage was fond of her, that was for sure, but would probably vehemently deny it if asked directly.  Alaran was technically right up his alley.  If she was anything other than a rival to surpass his intelligence, he wouldn't be looking at her in that way.

After this prank, though, the Qunari wasn't sure that look would continue.  Ah, didn't matter to him.

Sera and Alaran loaded Solas and his staff onto the small boat and began to row as quietly as they could to the small island in the center of Lake Luthias.  Bull lost sight of them in the darkness, but five minutes later they were back, poorly stifling their hissing giggles.

The next morning Bull awoke to find Alaran and Sera watching the island as they ate some food.  Specifically, she was munching on dried apples.  The girl downed them like they were nothing. As he peered out onto the shallow lake, he could see a distant shape wrapped up in a brown woolen blanket. "How long will it take for him to wake up?" Sera asked impatiently.  "We didn't give 'im that much sleeping stuff."  In a mutter she added, "at least not to kill 'im, anyways."

"Solas hates mornings," Alaran replied as she popped more bits of dried apple in her mouth. "It takes him a while to open his eyes, and even longer to sit up."

Sera sniggered. "This keeps gettin' better and better."

"Wanna join us to watch Solas wake up?" Alaran asked Iron Bull.  He looked down at her and couldn't help but smile.  Despite all the secrets and lies she told, she was still good people.  

"Ain't got nothing better to do," he said with a small shrug, and sat down beside the two of them.  He thanked Alaran when she offered him a portion of her apples from the sack in her hand.  

The three of them watched as finally the mage began to stir.  Alaran began narrating, but did it in a poor Starkhaven accent, for some reason.  "Now whot we 'ave 'ere is the elusive and majestic Solas.  Ya see 'ow he  _rises_ so slowly, justa drinkin' in 'is surroundings."  Solas was looking around confusedly, a definite frown on his face.  Bull started to chuckle.  "Oh!" Alaran said in a hushed whisper.  ""E spotted us!  Justa be quiet and 'opefully 'e won't engage in an attack.  We should be safe, seein' as we got a  _nice_ body of water separatin' us from 'im."  Solas narrowed his eyes at the three of them.  Bull could hear his huff all the way from the rocky shoreline.  "Crikey!  'E doesn't care about the water!  Justa look at 'im, goin' through it like it doesn't phase 'im  _at all!_ Oi!  Quick, geta move on!  'E'll be on us in mere moments!"  

Much arguing and Solas being agitated ensued, but Iron Bull saw him still looking at Alaran the same way as he did previous to the prank.  Wait a second...there was something more.  

Well, fuck.  

Solas just didn't have some stupid crush on Alaran.

He loved her.

 


	5. Very Punny

"Solas!  Solas!  Solas!"

Alaran sprang suddenly into his line of vision.  She was waving a stick in front of his face, an open-mouthed grin sprawled to opposite sides of her cheeks.  "FETCH!"

She then spun and threw the stick into the distance, where it hit a tree with a faint  _crack_ and fell to the ground.  

Solas stared at her flatly.  "No."  He went back to reading the book he had chosen to take on their journey.  It wasn't a difficult thing to walk and read at the same time, so that was just what he was doing.

"You're  _dreadful_ at this game," Alaran whined exasperatedly.  He ignored her attempts to rile him.  

She sidled next to Solas and leaned her head heavily on his shoulder.  "I mean, none of us are  _pawfect_ at it, but that doesn't mean you have to  _howl_ in agony at the notion."

Cassandra made a disgusted noise.

"Maker," Varric prayed aloud, clasping his gloved hands together, "please make Al stop torturing us with puns.  I swear, I'll change my ways if you do this for me."

"Varric, sometimes you  _chest_ my strength and patience," Alaran said, moving her head off Solas' shoulder to look back at the dwarf.  He scoffed.  

"Don't mind him, my lady," Blackwall said.  Solas inwardly groaned.  He and Alaran would be making puns for days if they weren't forcibly stopped.  "He's just a little  _short_ on courtesy, these days."

"For the love of the Maker, don't start," Cassandra growled.  "It is too early in the morning."

"Well, Cass, maybe you should  _seek_ out a cup of coffee to lighten your mood," Alaran chimed.   _  
_

"Nah, I wouldn't worry about her," Blackwall assured.  "She's  _all right."_

Alaran threw her head back and went, "Aaaaahhhhhhh, I get it!  'Cause she used to be the Right Hand of the Divine!  Good one, Blackwall!"

Cassandra made yet another disgusted noise.  

Solas tuned out the banter between Alaran and Blackwall, and only felt an occasional nudge from Alaran's elbow as she said something.  He loved her, though.  That was obvious.  Sometimes he wondered how she could fit so many facets of her personality into that body of hers, though, let alone her mind.  The world knew her as a benevolent, just, peace-making Inquisitor that had a serious, somber demeanor.

Then there was the Inquisitor the Inner Circle knew.

And that Inquisitor was currently poking Cassandra with another stick she procured as she and Blackwall made puns that continually worsened.  But the worse they were the more the two laughed.

Solas dared to tune back in Alaran.  It was a mistake.  "Blackwall, could you be a  _beard_ and hand me some jerky?"

"Of course, my lady.  I wouldn't want you to  _pale_ from lack of food."

He was  _actually_ glad when they ran into Red Templars, because that meant the puns would end.  

 "Well," Alaran sighed as sheathed her greatsword and ran a hand through her hair, which had gotten loose during the battle.  "That was--"

"If you say something punny one more time," Varric warned, "I'm going to hang myself from a tree."

"As long as it's from an oak and you have a shield, I'm good," Alaran said as she put an arm around him.  "Because, you know, Thorin  _Oakenshield_ was a dwarf."  She double over, slapping a knee and laughing as the others had the reference lost on them.

"If you could have just retrieved the stick in the first place," Cassandra grumbled to Solas, "we wouldn't have to have our intelligence slowly decline with every terrible joke."

"Believe me, Seeker," Solas said back.  "I am just as regretful."

 


	6. Snowboarding

"Alaran I am...unsure that this would be wise," Solas said as he braced himself in the passenger seat of my car.  "I would be perfectly fine if I stayed--"  The back wheels fishtailed and we swerved around a corner before regaining traction.

"If you what?" I asked.  "Sorry, I wasn't paying attention.  The road is always pretty icy up through here."

"Is it icy, or are you just a terrible driver?"

"Shush, you.  And no, you aren't staying in the lodge as I snowboard.  This is a  _date,_ remember?  One that you agreed to."

Solas scoffed.  "I do not think the word 'agreed' is the correct description of what happened."

I snickered.  It was more of me nearly crying as I told Solas that I just wanted him to experience something that I love, and that if he wanted to make me happy then he would come with me.  Solas showered me with kisses and told me that he would come ride the slopes.

Except, the further we climbed up the Frostbacks, the less Solas became confident in his decision.  Especially with the driving skills I had.  But I hadn't died yet.

"Do you usually come up by yourself?" Solas asked after he managed to regain some of his composure.  

"Nah.  It's safer when you come up with others.  I've been up with Sera a few times, but usually I just go up with Hawke and Anders."  I glanced over at Solas and saw that his jaw was clenched.  I'm pretty sure he hadn't even heard that I said  _Anders_ at all.  "Stop it, you.  Today is supposed to be full of fun, alright?  I don't want you constantly souring the mood thinking that I did this with the guy who kissed me--"

"You are not making things any better--"

"And that every time I fell, he was there to catch me," I continued in a dreamy voice.  "And every time my hands got too cold, he was there to warm them up with his magic, and every time--"

"Pull over."

"What?"

"Pull.  Over."

With the look in Solas' eyes, worry sparked inside of me.  Had I gone too far?  It wasn't the first time I had made fun of the situation, and all of those times Solas had taken it in stride with nothing more than an eye roll and a slight pinch of my ear.  

"O-okay," I muttered dejectedly.  I stopped at a nearby rest area that people could park their cars and overlook the scenic view of the mountains.  As soon as I did so, I turned to Solas and opened my mouth to apologize.  

I never did, though, because he Fade tongued me.  

Except, you know, it was in the real world.  That was even better.

-

"Okay, okay, you got this," I encouraged to Solas, who was bundled up in snowboarding gear I had asked to borrow from Anders.  The only thing that belonged to him was the black beanie that protected his chrome dome from outside temperatures.  

He wobbled dangerously on the snowboard.  I had taken up a steady toeside so he could latch onto my hands.  "Keep your heels planted, focus on your balance--like that!  Just like that!  Keep at it!  I'm going to let go, now."

"Alaran, no--" Solas immediately began to plead.  But I had already let my gloved hands slip from his and I moved away.  Solas managed to stay upright for a few moments before falling backwards on his butt.  He was already beginning to get a grumbly expression on his face.  

"Whoo!" I cheered as I helped him back up.  "You stayed up longer this time!  Good work!"

"Don't patronize me,  _vhenan,"_ Solas sighed.  I frowned, then tugged my fleece cowl below my chin so he could see it. 

"I'm not patronizing you, Solas.  I really mean it.  You're catching on.  But I think you're getting angry over this because you're used to being good at things.  So, for once, act like a normal person who has to learn little-by-little in order to get good."

Solas sighed and released a puff of visible air.   _"Ir abelas,_ Alaran.  You are right."

I smiled and pecked his cold nose with a kiss.  "I'm always right, but thank you for reaffirming my original observations--"

Solas got a mischievous glint in his gray-blue eyes and jerked my hands upwards before he let go.  I wobbled, but as I did I pushed Solas back with the flat of my gloved palm and watched with glee as he landed on his scrumptious scadoodle with an  _oomph._ "HA HA--shit!"  Solas had waved his hand and the snow beneath me turned to solid ice.  Hardly a second later I spun out of control and windmilled my arms before crashing to the ground.  

"Alright, yeah, I maybe deserved that one," I groaned as I pushed myself up.  Solas propped himself up on his elbows.  "But you, ser, are an ass."

"Yet for some reason I am still your  _vhenan,"_ Solas quipped back.  "How is that anatomically possible?"

"You..." I growled through a begrudging grin, but couldn't finish the sentence because I started thinking as to  _how_ it would be anatomically possible.  Instead I hunched over into a bundle of laughter for a good twenty seconds.  Solas, by the end of my fit, had given up and was now sprawled out on his back in the snow, breathing out hot billows of air.  "You dork," I snorted.  He lifted his head up to me.   There were small children currently gliding past us, the two adults positioned on the ground.  

"May we return to the lodge, now?  A cup of hot chocolate sounds delightful."

"Um, no.  You're going to finish going down the bunny hill whether you like it or not.  And besides, everybody knows that lodges overprice food and drink just to trap us in a vicious cycle of partaking in their delicious products."

"Is that supposed to stop us?"

"No.  Once we get back to the top, you're getting me hot chocolate."

-

"N-no, Solas, don't grab onto me--"

But his arms latched around my waist as we got off the lift.  All I could do was try to balance the both of us out as we slid.  Which, like I expected it to be, was a total and absolute failure.

Solas' board clipped mine and angled itself under my own.  That, in turn, made me trip and fall to my knees.

Oh, but it gets ~~better.~~

Worse.

It got worse.

Since Solas was already at an angle, when I tripped my board stopped his and he landed sideways.  Specifically, he landed sideways elbow-first on my back.  I cried out as my vertebrae were being crushed at the same time my knees were threatening to pop out of their sockets.  

"Get outta the way!" the skiers coming off the lift hollered.  Solas jerked his board out from under mine right as one of them was going past.  It caught them in the hip and sent them tumbling to the ground.  Him doing so only dug his elbow further into my nervous system.  

"Maker," I groaned woefully into the cold snow.  "I'm paralyzed."

 _"Fenedhis,"_ Solas cursed.   _"Ir abelas, vhenan,_ just let me, ah..."  He tried to roll over on his knees like I showed him how to, but failed, and only sent his board back into my knees.  I groaned again. 

"I'm paralyzed and my legs are broken.  Andraste, greet me with loving arms."

"Oh, shut up."

We crawled out of the way of other skiers and snowboarders coming off the lift and sat on the side near the fence as we nursed our wounds.  "Will you chance another run?" Solas prompted hopefully.  He was looking to get out of it.

I nestled my head on his frigid, snowy shoulder and let out a sigh.  "And miss out on the opportunity to see you fall on your ass a thousand more times?  I wouldn't miss it for the world."

-

"This is a bad idea."  

"It'll only be a bad idea if you _cling onto me like a baby koala bear,_ _"_ I said back to Solas as we ascended High Dragon Slope.  Both of us had our cowls up.  I had goggles, but Solas didn't.  So while I was looking at the world through blue-tinted vision, Solas' skin was red and raw and definitely going to be sunburned by the end of this whole shebang.  "Listen, the best way you're going to learn is if you stop relying on the safety of the bunny hill and set your sights on the big one."  My arm spread out to the beautiful, scenic view in front of and around us.  "I mean, if you're going to fall again and again and learn more and more, what better place could you do it at?"

"Despite its height, I must say that it is beautiful," Solas commented, craning his head back and forth to look at our surroundings.  

"Isn't it, though?"  I linked my arm with his.  "But you should see it at night.  Freaking gorgeous.  The stars are bright and infinite, and the moons...you can touch them.  It's  _insanely_ cold, but going down the slope and foregoing the music and just..." I scoffed an unseen smirk and stopped.

"Continue,  _vhenan._ Please."  

I sighed and muttered, "Just listening to the music of the stars."

I then flopped to the edge of the railing and moaned, which made the lift teeter.  Solas braced himself and made a noise in the back of his throat.  "Ugh.  That was probably the lamest thing I've ever said in my life," I stated woefully.  "I'm sorry about that."

"Would you consider walking among them?"

I paused and sat up so I could turn to Solas.  He couldn't see the slightly bemused expression on my face.  "Of course I would.  Why?"

He shrugged and gazed ahead of him.  "No reason.  But it was not an idiotic thought.  I quite liked it."

That made me smile, even if he may have been lying.  "Good.  Oh, hey, look!  We're gonna be getting off!"

Then it was Solas' turn to groan.

-

"You know, it's a good thing you have legs of ironbark, otherwise you'd be dead, right now," I said as I slowed into a sitting position near him.  Solas was panting.  He tugged down his cowl to give me a full view of his withering stare.

"How much farther do we have to go?"

I shrugged.  "Oh, I don't know, we're about halfway down?  I'm kind of sad there aren't any more trees nearby; that was pretty funny when you went all George of the Jungle on that pine."  I hauled myself up.  "Come on; hot chocolate is awaiting us."

Solas moved to get up as well, but the fresh powder prevented him from doing so.  His arms only sunk further into the snow and he flopped back down.  Yes.  Flopping.  Solas did that a lot whilst snowboarding.

"Roll--"

"Over, I know.   _Hng."_ He attempted to do so, but his board was under so much snow he was basically stuck.  I had to snicker and shake my head. 

"Dude, just..." I waggled my fingers.  "Put some fire on it to melt.  I've seen plenty of people do it.  And it's not like anybody up here wants to put in the effort of snitching to any Templars that some random mage was up on the slopes using magic to help them out.  If anything, they're jealous they don't have any magical properties to do that.  And coming from a non-magical person, I can affirm that this is true."

Solas scoffed, but tugged off his glove and waved a hand over his board, heat shimmering from it.  The snow melted to reveal his board.  I grinned, even though he couldn't see it.  "Thank you for coming with me, Solas.  It really means a lot."

That calmed his irritation.  After a few more attempts he got back onto his feet.  "Let us move on, shall we--"

His board caught again and he face-planted into the snow.  He even slid downwards a few solid feet, because of gravity and momentum and all that good sciency stuff.

I just laughed and took a snapshot of it with my noggin while Solas cursed into the white ground.

-

We sat in the warm lodge, sipping on hot chocolate.  Solas' eyes were drooping, but he still smiled at me.  "I have a question for you, Alaran," he finally said after a minute or so of comfortable silence.

"Yes?"

"Bright colors are not typically in your wardrobe palette."

"How sweet of you to notice.  That was a test.  You passed," I smirked over my cup.

He rolled his eyes.  "Why is it that you choose to wear such vivid attire snowboarding?"

I glanced down at the bright blue and green geometric patterned snowboarding jacket draped over the back of the chair I was sitting on.  "Because, as I've been told, I'm so pale that I blend into the snow, so I need really bright colors to help discern the difference."

"That's the reason.  Honestly."

"Honest to goodness.  If I go out and lay in the snow, everybody here will just think I'm a mound that hasn't been flattened, yet.  But I'd have to be naked to do that."  I waggled my silver eyebrows at Solas.

"Yes, that would be very cold," he responded dryly, not taking the bait.

I smiled again, but this one, while small, was wicked.

"So, when do you want to do this again?"

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this idea when I went snowboarding. I wish I could say I was like Al, but let's be honest here. I'm always a Solas at the beginning of the season.


	7. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Al hadn't taken an arrow to the head and had all that freaky-Universe-stuff happen to her. Yep. Things would have turned out way differently.

"I suspect you have questions."

"No, not really."

Solas turned fully to me.  He allowed himself to make that sad smile.  That sad, burdened smile I had grown to love and made it a goal to turn into an overjoyed one.  Now, though, it made me sick to look at it for longer than a second.  "Of course not," he spoke softly.  "You knew my plans from the very start.  And now the others will, as well.  I am--"

I roared and charged at Solas, who hesitated to react to my advance.  "YOUR KNEECAPS HAVE FACES ON THEM YOU ASSHOLE!"

My steel-toed boot connected to the ancient elf's shin.  He cried out in pain, but didn't have time to crouch over because my closed fist connected solidly with his jaw.  I felt magic swarm my body, but, like always, it didn't have any effect.  We both toppled to the ground.  The Mark on my entire arm was burning with his shitty foci-power, but not nearly enough for the anger tearing through my entire being.  "YOU--" punch.  "HAVE--" punch "THE--" punch "WORST--" punch "TASTE--" punch "IN--" punch " **FASHION!"**

I allowed myself to get thrown off by him.  For some reason I had begun to cry.  As I furiously wiped my tears away with a leather-clad palm, Solas healed himself with a wave of mana.  He wearily stood up.  "I...believe I deserved that."

"Shut up, jackass.  I honestly don't want to hear it.  That armor I made for you was the best armor Dagna and I have ever constructed.  We poured over it for _hours_ on end, and you replace it with..."  I gestured wildly to his horrendous outfit.   _"That?_ And you know what?   _I've never liked your stupid animal pelts._ It got hair everywhere and it makes you look really tiny because it's so huge."  I gulped in a deep breath of air.  My body didn't know how to handle the two years of pent-up emotions flowing out of me.  So I decided to be a little more gracious.  "Thank you for helping stop the Qunari threat, thank you for destroying my heart, thank you for betraying the only people who ever had the honor of calling you their friend, and thank you for making me take on the responsibility of removing your soul from your body."

Yep.  There it was.

Solas' shoulders still visibly sunk, even if it was only an increment.  But I had no time to stop and ask him why he did all this.  I knew why.  He chose duty over me.  He didn't like my plan to help the People.  He didn't want Thedas to progress, he wanted it to backtrack because he was afraid of the place he was now in.  And his fear made no room in his broken heart for me.  

My good hand reached back and pulled my greatsword from its sheath.  The slow, metallic, grinding sound made my skin prickle.  

He chose duty over me.  So now, the only thing I could do in return was choose duty over him.  My entire arm flared with pain, serving as a timer as to how close I was to dying.  But I still managed to get the fingers wrapped around my warm hilt.  The sword then flared to life.  

 _"Vhenan,_ please, do not do this," Solas pleaded, his voice even cracking a bit.  He took a step forward with an outstretched arm.  "I am the only one who can help my People."

"There it is, again," I spat.  " _Your_ People.  Did it never really occur to you that I consider them  _mine,_ as well?  That I want the best for them just as much as you do?"  He winced and inched back as I neared him, my flaming sword still raised firmly.  "We could have brought about so much  _change,_ Solas.  But you did not want to take the option where everybody still has their lives."  More angry tears were springing to my eyes, but I blinked them away so I could see clearly.  "The destruction you're planning on bringing about will far outweigh the good that  _may_ come of it.  I will not watch as the world I've grown to love is destroyed by the Veil, the Old Gods, the Titans that will reawaken, as well as any matter of ancient force that was stored away."  My lip started quivering, but the rest of my being was resolute.

Solas continued to slowly backtrack as I advanced and closed the gap between us.  The Anchor was crawling up my shoulder in shooting pulses.  "Alaran, let me help you.  The Mark, it is killing you, and I am the only one who may be able to stop it," Solas said, speaking in a rational tone.  I gave a twisted smirk in reply.

"You know," I spoke instead, "Hallah even warned me about you.  She warned that this would happen.  Something about me not fully being in the timeline of Thedas kept me from making drastic changes, including your mindset.  She offered to stop the Mark from spreading, too, but I turned her down."

"Why?" he snapped, his emotions threatening to break through that mask he had oh-so-carefully constructed.  "Do you have a painful death wish?"

"No," I said flatly, and continued in the same manner of speech.  "I'm doing it because if I die, then everybody will know what killed me.  That  _you_ killed me.  The final betrayal.  The backlash will be so severe that not even you will be able to keep your ranks from whispering and doubting your state-of-mind.  Because,  _Fen'Harel,_ I've done more good for Thedas than you ever will.  The elves will remember that.   _The world_ will remember that.  And no matter how far your name carries, you will never amount to being as loved as I was.  And people can love somebody so much easier when they remember all the good they've done, and not the evil they may have wrought."

That struck a blow.  "This is madness, Alaran," Solas said quickly after regaining some composure.  "It is--"

I screeched and lunged with my sword sweeping downward.  Solas narrowly dodged it, the look of hurt so deeply etched into his face I almost faltered.  

But I would not falter when it came to keeping the world from destruction.

He blasted magic at me, but all I felt was cool energy flowing around my body.   _"Ma vhenan,_ do not make me do this," Solas begged as he danced away from my oncoming attacks.  I paused long enough to draw in a deep breath.  I was tired.  I was  _so_ tired.  Everything was giving out; I didn't have much longer.  A part of me was glad that I would not live much longer than Solas, because I feared I would succumb to grief if I had to continue with my life carrying the weight of his death at my hands.  

And grief was such an anti-climactic thing to go out with.

"Do you think I  _want_ to do this?" I whispered, my voice humiliatingly weak.  "Solas... _Solas..._ I've had nightmares about doing this for two years.  But you know about duty as well as I do.  And, as much as I..." I swallowed hard.  "As much as I  _love_ you, I will not be selfish.  I  _cannot_ be selfish.  Not when so much depends on me."

"If we both die, then who will be there to help our People?" Solas demanded.

"Leliana, Briala, Josephine, Cullen, Cassandra, Hawke, and everybody who sees that this world  _still isn't good enough._ That it could be better!  That's your problem, Solas:  you thought that you were the only one who saw the unfairness and the injustice.  You thought you were the only one who felt obliged to do something.  But those people, those people who called you their  _friend..._ they felt the same way.  You were just too prideful to ever ask."  

My arm demanded its presence be acknowledged.  The tendrils were creeping along the outer edges of my collarbone.  I couldn't delay any longer.  

My sword aimed to cleave into Solas' side, but I was growing weaker.  I wouldn't have the upper hand much longer.

Heh.  I wouldn't have  _any_ hand much longer, with the way things felt.  Or beating heart.   _Dang, Al, lighten up.  You're only facing your death, here._

 _"Ir abelas, ma vhenan,"_ Solas said with such sadness I nearly threw my sword down and embraced him.

But that was before he raised his hand and wrenched it into a fist.

I was felled to my knees by the indescribable pain tearing through my entire arm.   _Ah, I remember what it feels like, now,_ I dimly thought to myself through the deafening scream erupting through my chest and tearing my throat raw.   _It feels like when Corypheus first manipulated my Anchor back at Haven.  Lovely reminder, that._

_But what did you say to yourself back then?_

**_No screaming for you!_ **

With all the willpower I had, I reigned in my cries and forced myself into silence, then staggered to my feet.  Solas was gaping at me with a mixture of awe, despair, and fear.  

Through black-tinged peripheries, I drove my sword through the love of my life's gut.

I yanked it out in time so we could collapse into each other's arms and fall to the ground.   _"Ma vhenan,"_ I whispered.  Blood began filling my mouth.  

 _"Emma lath,"_ Solas whispered back as his own blood trickled from the corner of his lip that was most dominant in quirking upward.  He managed to draw me close to him and place a comforting hand on my cheek.  The pain in my arm was gone, now; all that remained was a cold seeping into my heart and slowing it down to soothing, thrumming beats.  "Forgive me," he pleaded quietly.  The metallic tang of blood and dust filled my nostrils, but beyond that was his smell.  Outdoors and old books.  Just the way I remembered. _  
_

I nudged my head forward and kissed Solas with all the love I could put into it.  "I do," I said back, my lips brushing his upon uttering the small yet extremely significant words.  "I do, Solas."

As we lay there, feeling both of our life forces ebbing away to a new place, Solas chuckled.  It was hoarse and weak, but a chuckle all the same.  "You...never liked my pelts?" he asked.

My chest rose and fell with the grin drawled across my face.  "I...I never understood...why you wore them.  Even...even in the heat."  For good effect, I placed a hand on the pelt he had donned.  "I mean...it doesn't even...go with the color...gold."  My heart palpitated and I gasped in surprise, as well at the inevitability of it all.  

"You were always...always the one with better fashion," Solas confessed.  I clung as tightly as I could to him.  The end was nigh.

"I love you, my hobo elven apostate."

"And I love you, my..."

I died before Solas could finish his sentiment.

-

He followed shortly after to finish it, though.

-

Hallah Lynne had given Varric the letter with a sad, hopeful smile and a few words of comfort that he didn't really want to heed at the time.  For weeks, he left it unopened and sitting at the very bottom of his desk, and pretended that it didn't even exist.  That wasn't the hardest thing to do; Varric ignored a lot of letters, and the world didn't end because of it.  So, naturally, it wouldn't end if he never read whatever it was she had left for him.

Of course he was angry.  She  _knew_ she was going to die and not be helped, and they all had just let it happen.  Even Varric.  He saw the way her arm shook and faltered after each swing of her greatsword.  He saw the look of pain and resolve in her violet eyes, which had been growing dimmer by the day.  

And then, Varric left.

He left because he had damn responsibilities, because he had to go off and make his own story like she had directed him to do, and with the Seeker of all people, at his side.  Hell, she even waved them off herself, with what looked to be tears in her eyes but a rare grin on her face.  Varric couldn't be positive about the tears, though, because his own eyes were blurry.

The letters came frequently enough;  _those_ he did open, and he and Cassandra would pour over her words together.  At some point, however, he began to notice when things were going south.  Ferelden and Orlais were unhappy and there for a short while Varric worried if she really wouldn't be able to pull it all together with the grit, bullshit, and badassery (her words, not his) like she typically did.

Against all odds, though, and much to Varric's relief, she did.  

But Maker, did she have to be a damn martyr because of it?

The world stopped when Varric saw her body entangled in Solas' own embrace.   _She **had** to be alive,_ he remembered thinking as he ran as fast as his short legs could carry him to her.  

She wasn't.

As Varric freely wept with his heartbroken, misfit family, he still couldn't help but notice that the two of them finally looked...peaceful.  So he hoped and prayed that somehow, they could find a way to fall in love without the weight of the past and future on their shoulders.  

That still didn't make anything easier.  He had to be the one to break it to her advisers--well, to Ruffles and Curly and the  _Divine--_ because nobody else could do it.  Then, because Varric had no idea what else to do, he went home.  

One day, months after the Inquisition had been turned into a humanitarian organization that aided the Chantry--that's all she ever wanted to do, was to help others--Varric was searching for one of the damn letters Choir Boy  _swore_ he put precious information in.  That was when he came across it. _  
_

_Don't do it,_ he yelled internally as his fingers slowly gripped the thick parchment material the letter was comprised of.  When he turned it over hot, stinging tears blurred his vision, but he could still see who the letter was addressed to in that signature, slanted handwriting.  The same handwriting that Josie nearly had a come-apart over because it wasn't dignified.  But she didn't care.  She had never cared.  

_-My Dwarf-_

The letter was stamped by the blood-red wax of the Inquisition seal.  He easily opened it, but the snapping of the wax was about as loud as thunder.  For some reason unbeknownst to Varric, he pulled out the paper within and put on his spectacles to read.  

_Varric,_

_Oh, man, it's been such a long ride, hasn't it?  I don't really know where to begin._

_Wait, I know!_

_I'll start from the beginning._

_I was a hopelessly lost girl who didn't know what world she was in and how she even got there in the first place.  I will never, ever admit it out loud, but I was scared out of my mind.  At any moment I could  have died not knowing what would happen to me.  At any moment I could make one wrong decision and the whole world would come crashing and burning down on top of me._

_Then there was you._

He stifled back an unwanted sob.

_Remember when you spoke to me at the Crossroads?  After I had just killed that Templar and I was bawling my eyes out?  I'm sure you do (oh and by the way thanks for never telling anybody about that when you could have like a million times over).  I think that was when I had inklings that we would become best friends.  But the cool kind of best friends, where we wouldn't flaunt our friendship in front of everybody else so they wouldn't get jealous or feel left out.  You made me feel safe in a world where I didn't believe there was such a thing as safety.  And even though I had to put up with your sawing snores, you put up with my chaotic sleeping patterns.  I guess it all just rolled onward from that point, right?  We both were the king and queen of witty remarks, we both disliked being underground--_

"No," Varric chuckled thickly,  _"I_ disliked being underground.   _You_ were terrified of it."

\-- _well, I guess I was more on the severe spectrum of that one, but still.  We both observed others when they didn't think anybody was watching them.  And I know you watched me, Varric, in the moments when I thought nobody was looking.  I don't know what you saw, nor do I believe I ever want to.  I mean, I did some pretty embarrassing things when I believed myself to have a private moment.  But you want to know what I saw when I looked at the grand storyteller?_

_I saw a man that let the mask of a smile fade for just a few seconds.  When that did, I looked upon somebody with wells of care and kindness residing deep within them.  I always wondered why you tried to hide that, Varric.  Kindness doesn't make you weak.  But I guess that's just a question that will go unanswered.  I'm okay with that.  You want to know what else I saw?  Well, there was also a man who had been so deeply hurt by somebody he entrusted his heart with that he was afraid to completely show it, again.  We all have our own broken hallelujahs, my dearest Varric.  And that's okay.  You were afraid, though.  Afraid of letting anybody see just how broken you were._

_And then I saw you looking at her._

_I'll admit, I was kind of a creeper with shipping you and Cassie._

"Again with the shipping," he whispered to himself with a begrudging smirk.  "It doesn't make any sense."

_But I mean, come on, how on point was I with that whole thing?  I was pretty proud of myself with that one._

_Varric, you are one lucky man.  Cassandra is...well, Cassandra.  Still very stabby, still very scowly, and still very [disgusted noises]._

He laughed aloud at that.

 _Beyond all of that, though, and hey, even_ with  _all of that, she's somebody who can fix anything.  Seriously.  There hasn't been a think I haven't seen Cassandra Pentaghast fix.  Even if it is with her fists.  But she can fix that jagged, torn heart of yours Varric, especially since I'll be gone by the time you read this.  Out of anybody, I believe in her the most to do just that.  So let her.  Please, let her.  And when she does, you can do the same in return.  That's how a healthy relationship works, right?_

_I know you won't have read this until months after my departure.  Yes, Varric, believe it or not, I've got you figured out pretty well.  So let me tell you how this ends, okay?_

_...It doesn't._

_Life goes on, Varric, and the only person who you're affecting in being unhappy is yourself.  What do you get from being unhappy?  Especially when you know that I got to choose how I died?  I mean, come on, how cool is that?  And here all of you thought I was going to die getting eaten by a nug (yes I'm still traumatized by that conversation all of you took glee in having).  So please, try to find happiness.  Start off with the little things.  Start off with Cassandra.  Buy her flowers, read her a poem, take her for a picnic...the best way you can begin to feel happy again is by making others so themselves._

"You were always the best at it," he mumbled aloud.  

 _Well, I'm running out of steam.  Be happy.  Smile.  Take heart.  I'm with you, Varric.  I never could have asked for a better storyteller to be at my side.  Make sure they knew who I was when I wasn't the Inquisitor. Make sure they knew who_ you  _were to the Inquisitor._

_Also, I'm crossing my fingers that you'll name a kid after me._

_With Much Love,  
Al_

Varric leaned back and breathed in and out as he wiped away the tears in his eyes.  Surprisingly, he was smiling.  Of course she would get him to do that even when she's dead.

No.  She was not dead.  Varric would make sure that she would remain alive forever, on pages and in speeches and through actions.

...Alaran.

Alaran wasn't gone.  Not to Varric.

His work was just beginning.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sobbing in the corner and whispering to myself* why did I write this?
> 
> Oh, yeah, because I like feeling pain.
> 
> Have no worries though, lovelies, this is in the alternate universe of things. Not the way it's actually going to be. Nuh uh. No way. This is just a "what if" I asked myself. 
> 
> And in case you guys didn't catch on, Varric refused to even think Alaran's name after she died up until reading that letter. Maybe more post-death feelings of the rest of the Inner Circle? Maybe? I might have to emotionally prepare myself if I decide to do it.


	8. Injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Alaran floofy floof. I just had to dump this here.

Skin clammy, face flushed, breath trembling, voice ragged.  

This shouldn't ever have been the way Al was described.

They made their way back to Skyhold at the quickest pace they could manage without jostling her too much.  At some point a healer would meet them and help tend to her wounds, but before then the only thing anybody could do was give her healing potions and tonics.  But she was still a baby when it came to drinking them, despite the fact that it would help her feel better.

And, because Varric had taken on the duty of watching over her as they returned from the Exalted Plains, he was also in charge of getting the potions down her throat.

Milking a druffalo was easier than getting Alaran Lavellan to drink something she didn't like.

"Andraste's tits," he groaned as she turned her head away from him with tightly pursed lips.  "Come on, Al, you need this  _so you can live."_

"I'm not doing it," she retorted, but Varric took her opened mouth as an opportunity to shove the top of the potion between her lips.  Al weakly flailed and tried to jerk her head back far enough so she could escape it, but Varric held it firmly in place.  Still, she let the potion pool up in her cheeks to the point where they would explode any moment.  Her eyes, while half-closed, shone with defiance.

"Swallow, or I'm going to plug your nose until you do," Varric warned.  He didn't dare take the empty potion bottle out from between her lips.  Call it a feeling, but Varric figured Al would only ferociously spit it up.  Well, rather, she'd  _spray_ it.  All over Varric.  He wasn't a high-maintenance dwarf, but he didn't want health potion mixed with Alaran's spit all over his clothes.

She didn't budge.  Varric rubbed his face and groaned.  "I don't know why you're being so difficult; you take this stuff all the time!"

"Our dear Inquisitor can be  _very_ difficult when she is injured," Dorian chimed in from the front of the wagon.  Good ol' Sparkler said he got  _motion sickness_ from wagon rides.  Well so did Varric, yet here he was, taking care of a belligerent girl who still had her cheeks comically filled with red liquid.  "For some reason, she doesn't like to accept that she has to heal like  _everybody else!"_

"I'm going to do it," Varric threatened.  His free hand hovered above her nose.  Al narrowed her eyes dangerously back at him.  He knew what she was thinking in her mind.  If he repeated it out loud, though, it would probably make baby hallas cry or something.  

When she wouldn't yield, Varric had no other choice but to pinch her nostrils shut.  Al lasted for a little while, as was expected, but even the almighty Herald of Andraste couldn't go without air.  His actions probably weren't the best for her health, but they were necessary.

He let go as soon as Al finally swallowed.  It was a huge gulp, and she went into a coughing fit afterwards.  The racking of her body flared up the wounds on her back, which in turn made her tear up.  Because she hated crying so much, she wound up being mad.  And, because she was mad specifically at Varric, he got a weak punch on his shoulder.  "I--I hate you--" Al sputtered out amidst her state of misery.   

"You can tell me all the countless reasons why you do when you feel better because of that potion," Varric said consolingly, patting her bony kneecap for good measure.  She scowled back though red-rimmed eyes.  

Soon, though, those eyes became heavier and heavier, and finally--much to Varric's relief--Al drifted off into a feverish slumber.  

As evening descended, Varric found himself in a similar state.  He snapped awake, however, when Al shifted and whimpered.  He was up and by her side in a moment.  "Dreams are funky when you have a fever," she muttered hoarsely.  Varric had a water skein pressed to her lips to help remedy her dry throat.  

_Solas was going to get his ass kicked._

"I know," Varric said to keep conversation.  "But you need to sleep."

"Yeah, yeah."  Her out-of-focus violet eyes sharpened long enough to tell Varric that he was in for something next.  "Hey, you know what you should do?"

"What," he couldn't help but chuckle.  No, he wasn't going to like this one bit.  He expected Al to suggest that he strip naked and run through the trees, or shave a heart into his chest hair, or--

"You should sing to me."

He sighed in relief, but in exasperation, as well.  Maker damn it all, she was going to get what she wanted with those too-large eyes shining at him in expectancy.  

"What do you want me to sing?" he muttered lowly so Dorian couldn't hear him.  Not that it would matter, here in a few moments.  "I don't know any of your weird, alien songs, so I'm not singing those."

She gave a small smile that made Varric's reluctance start to crumble.   _"Once We Were._ I like that one."

"Oh, Maker," Dorian groaned from his seat up front.  "I hear that one too often in the tavern.  Please, something else."

"Unless you want to sing, Sparkler, Her Inquisitorialness is getting what she wants," Varric said back.  The mage huffed, but it was halfhearted.  

So, after taking a deep breath, Varric sang for Alaran.  Her smile grew and her eyes closed once more.  

They didn't open until the party reached Skyhold.


	9. Kirkwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A one-shot if Al had wound up in Kirkwall and in the middle of Dragon Age: II and not Inquisition.

_"...Maker, is it a demon?"_

_"I've never seen such a pale elf, before..."_

_"Did you see?  She just appeared in the middle of the street!"_

My eyes cracked open, and I coughed slightly from the inhalation of dust.  The particles coated my lips and tongue, and the warmth of the paved stone ground heated the front of my body.  I lifted my head and peered at my surroundings.

What the...?

Before anything could register, rough hands picked me up off the ground.  I moaned in ache and protest.  Several whistles from the street ensued.

Wait.

I looked down at my body.  My jaw dropped.  I was currently bearing my nekkid body for the world to see.  My  _pale_ naked body.  My  _different_ naked body.  My...my...

"Ho, there, Cullen!" a booming voice called.  I whipped my head over to see a man with black, choppy hair with a red streak across the bridge of his nose waving jovially.  Flanking him was a short man with a considerable amount of exposed chest hair, a dark-skinned woman in scandalous clothes and a blue bandana, and another man with white hair and odd markings on his chin, neck, and arms.  "I didn't know Templars got kinky with elves in the middle of the street!  Usually they wait until dark, or just go over to the Blooming Rose."  

My head then craned around to see a blond-haired man opening and closing his mouth as he sputtered to come up with the right words.  "I--I'm not-- _she_ fell through the middle of the air!  Obviously she's a mage practicing blood magic..."

I lost sense of the world around me as everything crashed against my being.  This couldn't be happening.  This  _wasn't_ happening.  I was dying.  No!  I was  _dead._ Yeah, this was...this was...

Shit.  I couldn't explain anything.  And I felt alive.  My heart was racing incredibly fast, my blood was roaring loudly in my ears, my body was quivering with adrenaline...all were signs that pointed to me being alive.  

But  _that_ was the Champion of Kirkwall.   _That_ was Varric.   _That_ was Isabela.   _T_ _hat_ was Fenris.  

And holding me was Cullen Rutherford, a very important member of the Templar Order.  

"...not the first to be publicly indecent.  Maker knows  _everybody_ in Lowtown has been a victim of that," Hawke was saying with a charming smile.  "And can you honestly feel any magic on her?"

A few moments of silence passed.  Then there was a sigh from Cullen.  "No."  His voice hardened once more.  "But it still doesn't explain how she got to be here.  I'm going to take her to the Circle--"

"Oh, no,  _that's_ not necessary," Hawke insisted.  He snapped his fingers at Varric.  "Maker, Tethras, be a gentleman and give her your duster!"

"And you're just going to take her under your wing?" Cullen demanded to know.

"He  _is_ a Hawke, after all," I muttered shakily.  Varric pointed his finger at me and nodded in approval. 

"I like you."

_And I love you, Varric.  Seriously.  I love you.  I love all of you._

But I didn't say that.  "No," the Templar said flatly, ignoring my awful pun.  "She's going to the Circle.  Better yet, I'm taking her to the Templars."

Fear and panic raged inside me.  Even if this _was_ just a dream, it was going to turn into a nightmare very fast if I didn't do anything.  I was  _not_ going to be taken to the Knight-Commander and be subjected to torture until I was proven to be harmless.  Nor was I going to be trapped in the Circle.

"If you don't put me down, right now," I growled, using my fear and turning it into ferocity.  "I'm going to tell everybody that _you're_ the reason why I'm naked and terrified.  I will  _ruin_ your entire career, Cullen.  Please don't make me do that.  You're a good man, and you have so much in store.  Things will get better."  I was full-on rambling, now.  "But if you don't let me go in the next five seconds, I will scream bloody murder.  And then the Champion of Kirkwall here will have to save me."  Hawke and his party were all gaping at me as I spoke.  Varying degrees of shock and smiles were sprawled across their faces.  "Isn't that right?"  I locked eyes with Hawke.

He cleared his throat and straightened his expression.  "Yes.  Very true.  Quite.  Most seriously.  Then we'd have a war on our hands, and we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

Oh, the foreshadowing was so ripe it could have been plucked from the branch of irony.  

"You wouldn't dare," Cullen growled.  I sucked in air, which puffed my naked chest out.  

"Put her down, Rutherford," Hawke warned.  "I won't report you to the Templars if you just let her go and give her to me."

"I'd do what he says," Varric joined in.  "He  _is_ a respected figure in Kirkwall.  And let's be real here:  people like him more than they like the Templars.  You think anybody here is going to take your side?"

I was ready to let an awful scream tear my throat a new one when I was set down.  My knees immediately buckled and I collapsed back onto the dirty stone.  "I won't forget this, Hawke," Cullen said darkly.  

"I will," Hawke said back, suddenly jovial again.  "You are my favorite Templar, after all."

"Thank you, Cullen," I whispered.  My ass was up to him and here I was, thanking him for dropping me on the ground and not imprisoning me.  "I won't forget this, either."

I could almost feel the heat rise to the Templar's cheeks.  Without another word he stormed off.  

A leather duster was laid on top of me moments after.  The scent of pine oil filled my nostrils.  "Now, what kind of story do you have?" Varric asked me soothingly as I shakily put my arms through the sleeves.

"Yeah," Hawke said as he approached.  "It's not every day that a Dalish elf suddenly appears out of thin air."

A Dalish elf?   _A Dalish elf?_

"Honestly," I spoke hoarsely, "you probably have a better idea than I do."

-

My fingers grazed the pale blue  _vallaslin_ etched into my skin.  Saturated violet eyes peered back at me in the mirror, and dark, berry-colored lips were set into a straight line.  Pointed ears twitched sporadically.   _Those_ were uncontrollable.  

There was a knock on the sad, splintered door.  I turned around and walked a short ways to open it.  Rooms at the Hanged Man were, well...

They were shit.

And I was in one of them.   _Just pretend you're Kvothe,_ I told myself,  _and that the Hanged Man is Anker's.  Only, you're not a hero and this place is the worst thing to ever have existed._

It had been a few days since I had taken up the housing.  Varric had given me a fair amount of money to buy me new clothes, and was also covering my first month of rent.  I was frugal, and had spend only a fourth of my money on clothes.  That meant my thin trousers were too long for my legs and had to be rolled up, my boots were a size too large and seriously used, and my tunics were plain colors and too large.  That resulted in knots on the sides or back of the shirts.  I did spend some coin on underwear and socks.   _Those_ I needed.  I wasn't going to be unhygienic.

Hawke, Isabela, and Varric stood on the other side.  "See you settled in nicely," Varric said as he peeked in.  Isabela rested against the doorway and smirked.  

"Now that's no way to dress a pretty body like yours.  What, did Varric only give you five coppers?"

"I gave her  _two silvers!"_ Varric protested.  

"So have you figured out a name for yourself, yet?" Hawke questioned with a familiar raised eyebrow.

I gave a nod.  "Yeah.  I'm Alaran."   _Pretty sure that's what I named myself.  It sounded more elfy than Annabelle._

"Alaran of...?" Hawke continued to prompt.  I grimaced and scratched my nose.

"...Lavellan?  I think?  Can't be too positive," I responded, even though I was a thousand percent positive.  I dropped my hand and shrugged.  "But it doesn't matter."   _Now, could you help me get home so I can die a miserable death?  It's pretty hot, here, and I'm actually starting to miss the cold New York winter I had been so suddenly ripped away from._

"Listen, the reason we're here is 'cause we found you a job," Varric said.  "You can't live off of my charity forever."  He said the last part with an easy smile.  

"You didn't sell me out to the Blooming Rose, did you?  I know you got a first-hand view of my incredible bod, but it's not for sale."  I paused.  "Unless I get food as payment.   _Then_ I would consider--"

"Maker, no," Hawke laughed.  "My friend Aveline--"

I internally screamed with excitement.

"--needs somebody to help her with paperwork.  I mentioned that you could use the job, she said no, I said yes, she said no again, I said yes again, she gave an exasperated sigh, and I took that as a go ahead," he grinned.  "You in?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but Isabela snapped out a finger and held it against my lips.  "I know you're going to say yes so you can afford to live in this shithole,  _but_ you're going to need nicer clothes.  It physically hurts me to see you look like that."  She waved her free hand up and down at my body.

"You just gestured to all of me," I frowned.  "And these clothes are brand new!"

"Al," Varric chuckled, "those clothes were knew about three years ago."  He squinted his eyes and peered closer.  "Andraste's sweet ass, I do believe those are pit stains."

My frown deepened, and I folded my arms to hide said pit stains.  "I'm not buying new clothes.  I'll just throw them in the wash--"  I broke into a fit of coughing to hide my near slip-up.  "I'll just wash them again."

"Honey, those aren't coming out," Isabela said with the shake of her head.  She then tilted it.  "And I think I saw that same shirt on that fat butcher across the street."

I tried not to be grossed out.  "Look, why don't we worry about my impeccable fashion sense later," I sighed.  "I'd love to have a job.  Right now I'd be shoveling pig shit if it could keep me from boredom."

"Careful what you wish for," Varric winked.  "You may just do that, if you get on Aveline's bad side."

"But seriously," Hawke said, scratching his beard.  That thing was obviously maintained with care.  "Do you want the job or not?"

Basically, he was asking me if I wanted to accept this as reality and embrace everything I once thought was just part of a video game, and most likely alter the course of everything and everyone.

I smirked.  "Freak yeah."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe there will be more to come?


	10. Notices

_A collection of notices that were sent by the Inquisitor herself sits in one of Leliana's desk drawers.  When the Spymaster needs to hold a small smile, tucked and hidden underneath the hood of her purple garb, she pulls them out and reads through them with a glass of wine and a flickering candle.  Only she and her ravens know that she does such a thing._

To Whom It May Concern:

There is an abundance of nugs running rampant throughout Skyhold.  And to answer the question of where they originated from that many of you have already asked me as I was either conversing with Ambassador Montilyet, painting in the rotunda, reading in the library, eating breakfast in the mess hall, and other various places...

I do not know.

So, commencing immediately, I would ask all of you to watch out for anybody who has suspicious intent, or is carrying a squeaking, writhing bag.  Not only would you do the Inquisition a great service, but the Inquisitor herself.  If you see anything, please report to Ambassador Montilyet so the problem can be resolved as quickly as possible.  

Sincerely,  
Inquisitor Lavellan

-

To Whom It May Concern:

With the worsening nug problem and nobody yet caught, I am hereby initiating a Nug Task Force.  These brave men and women will wrangle and round up the  ~~abominations~~  creatures that have taken up residency in Skyhold.  They will be paid one silver an hour for being on the job, and an extra for every tenth nug caught.  Please go to Ambassador Montilyet to sign up.  

Sincerely,   
Inquisitor Lavellan

-

To Whom It May Concern:

Citizens, your Inquisitor needs you.  Unfortunately, Ambassador Montilyet refuses to raise the wages for the Nug Task Force, which is, unfortunately, severely overwhelmed by the growing nug population.  They have now formed a hierarchy, resulting in kitchen raids, stable vandalism, and marking their territory all over the tavern.  If anybody can track down their leader and eliminate them, I, the Inquisitor, will personally reward them with ten silvers.  The sooner this serious problem is resolved, the sooner people can return to the tavern without having their senses assaulted...even more.

Sincerely,  
Inquisitor Lavellan

_[Scribbled underneath is a crude drawing of a giant nug eating the poor portrayal of Inquisitor Lavellan.  The nug wears a tiny crown on its head.]_

_-_

**_WANTED:  
THE LEADER OF SKYHOLD'S CLAN OF NUGS.  LAST SEEN NEAR THE STABLES.  WILL RESPOND TO OLD CHEESE.  _**

_[Below the bold letters is a sketch of a nug with speckles on its hindquarters and brow.  The artist, who was most likely the Inquisitor herself, somehow managed to get a malicious glint in the creature's eye.]_

_[In red ink a crown is drawn on top of the nug's head, as well as a mustache that looks eerily similar to the library's Tevinter resident.]_

_[In slanted, almost otherworldly handwriting, a sentence is written at the bottom of the parchment paper]_

Stop vandalizing things, Sera!  This is a serious matter!

-

To Whom It May Concern:

Whoever took some of the nugs that are running amok in Skyhold and put them in my chambers, know that I, the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, will find you, and I will ~~kill~~ reprimand you.  I have suspicions as to who it is.  If any of you do, as well, please come see me between the hours of noon and two pm.  We can discuss the possibilities.

There will be frilly cakes.  

Sincerely,  
Inquisitor Lavellan

-

To Whom It May Concern:

Don't trust any of my so-called "Inner Circle."  Refrain from taking any bribes they may give if they are caught in the act of taking nugs and placing them in my chambers, bed covers, bath tub, saddle bags, and dressers, as well as inside the War Room.  I believe they have allied themselves with the Nug Queen of Skyhold (as we have learned from intel collected that their leader is a vicious, female tyrant).  

Act soon and inform me of their heinous deeds, or otherwise there may be a full-scale war on our hands.

Sincerely,  
Inquisitor Lavellan

_[Scribbled underneath is a crude drawing of the Inquisitor serving tea to a nug with a tiny crown on its head.  Lines that most likely represent tears stream down her frowny face.]_

-

To Whom It Definitely Concerns:

I will kick all of you bastards out of Skyhold.  You and all of your nug friends.  Because your relationship with them obviously means more than your relationship with me.  -A

Inquisitor, I took the first three of these down.  Please, do not make any more copies.  End this dispute.  -J

This isn't a "dispute," Josie.  This.  Is.  War.  -A

Bring.  It.  -S

What is this, some kind of discussion board?  Maker's breath, stop this nonsense now.  Inquisitor, you are the leader of one of the most powerful organizations in Thedas.  You are above this.  -C

You want to go, Rutherford?  I'll mess you up if you get in my way.  And by mess up, I mean I'll ruin your perfectly sculpted hair.  -A

Let's get back on the subject at hand, yeah?  Nugs.  All over Skyhold.  In your bedroom.  Putting their tiny hands all over your belongings.  -V

I'm going to pick each and every one of your chest hairs off with tweezers.  You can only hide for so long, Tethras.  I don't need Leliana or her people to track you down.  I'll just follow the scent of too-oiled leather and betrayal.  -A

Could you stop venomously staring at the Chargers as we train in the morning?  We had nothing to do with this whole thing.  Only Iron Bull was a part of it.  -K

Thank you, Aclassi.  At least somebody is still loyal to the Inquisitor.  -A

Aw, come on, Krem!  Just for that, you and the boys are gonna get to run an extra mile.  -B

Where have all of you gone, hm?  All hiding out, all hiding from me?  RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.  -A

_[An arrow is pierced below the sentence.]_

They are hiding in the room past the kitchens and next to the vault.  -C

I love you, Cassie.  -A

Do not call me that.  -C

 _[Scribbled around the sentence is CASSIE CASSIE CASSIE CASSIE]_

_-_

To Whom It May Concern:

The nug issue is being resolved.  Thank you all for your support, reliance, and patience.  Your Inquisitor humbly thanks you.  

Sincerely,  
Inquisitor Lavellan

_Leliana's smile brightens as she reads the last notice.  They never knew that it was her that had brought all the nugs to Skyhold in the first place.  Nor will they ever know that it was her that hid a nug in the Inquisitor's office drawer months after the issue had almost been forgotten._

 


	11. Storm

Abelas knew what they held, what they gave, and why they stood.  

The one they called the Dread Wolf--he was ancient and suffering, like they all were, yet his heart was alive and thrumming with passion and love.  It was for her and only her.

The Inquisitor's did the same in return for him.  There was a wildness to their love, a frightening beauty.  They hid it from the world ever so carefully, for if the world saw what they had for one another, it would tremble to its very core.

Love that they had, even in the times of Arlathan, when love was immortal and unending, was a rarity indeed.  The closest thing Abelas could compare it with was the love he had for Mythal, his mistress, his world, his goddess.  Such were the thoughts of others who were in servitude towards her, or even one of the other Evanuris.  

Yet it was different.  Passionate, unyielding, worshiping love...as well as equal, respectful,  _soul-bonded_ love.  

And there it was.  They were soul-bonded.  The scent of each other was so deeply infused inside their bodies that the blood that coursed through their veins may have very well been the same.  Abelas briefly wondered how that came to pass, how it came to be.  Because, though she was strong in mind and deed, she was still mortal.  She would fade, crumble to time and its ever-changing history, while all he could do was hold her ashes in his trembling hands.  

But there had been  _something_ between them that promised such a thing would not happen.  Abelas did not know what it was, exactly, and his curiosity was not so great as to find out.  Yet.

For when they looked at him, when they told him that there was still hope to be sought, he believed them.  Mythal preserve him, but he believed them with his entire being.  The  _vallaslin_ etched into her face was a sign--no, a  _promise--_ of protection, of perseverance, of life.

And when they looked at each other, he realized just what they reminded him of.

The Wolf's eyes were a thunderstorm.  Roiling, deep, ominous, poetic.  The Inquisitor's eyes were lightning.  Fast, cracking, frightening, breathtaking.  Together they were the perfect storm, synchronized in everything, poised to strike.  

Abelas pondered if he should pray for mercy on those they would come down upon.

Then he remembered that those they did enact their fury and justice on deserved it.

Because Alaran and Solas, Solas and Alaran, would raise the world anew.  


	12. Controls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hallah.  
> Lynne.

We found Hallah Lynne in the Hinterlands.  Well, I'm sure it was more like  _she found us,_ but that was beside the point.

Solas equipped himself with his stave and warily held it out against the Traveler, who was lounging against one of the great pine trees that swayed with the spring air.  She was wearing a red shirt with a yellow star in the middle and regular denim jeans and clunky sandals.  So, all in all, not one of her worst fashion days.  Wayfarer sunglasses shielded her eyes, but I knew she was looking right at me from the way she was smirking.  

"Hey, Alaran!  How's it going?" she called.

"Pretty good," I shrugged, "you?"

Her smirk vanished.  "No, not good.  Not good at all."  With a groan, Hallah pushed herself up off the ground and towered before us.  She could probably drop-kick Varric and send him soaring through the trees like they were goal posts, if she wanted to.  The dwarf sensed that and unknowingly took a step back.  

"What's the matter?" I continued to question.  She pushed her sunglasses back to reveal piercing, unrelenting emerald green eyes.

Piercing, unrelenting emerald green eyes that were laced with boredom.

"Being immortal kind of blows, sometimes," Hallah explained with a hunch of her shoulders.  "I run out of fun things to do.  And I've had to do a lot of serious things lately, and that's bummed me out."

"What serious things?"  My question, this time, was a tad more cautious and reluctant.

If Hallah noticed, she didn't bother to care.  "I had to watch as heroes failed, as worlds were destroyed and consumed by evil, and then I had to destroy that world so the darkness wouldn't spread to others.  Then  _that_ caused a serious legal battle in which I was kicked out of a galaxy for a millennium.  I mean, I'll still go there because lots of people need my help, but..."  Hallah gave a weary shake of her head and muttered lowly, "I was just trying to help."

How many heroes had this woman seen fail?  How many worlds did she have to destroy because of it?  How many worlds did she save because she did so?  

I sighed dramatically.   _"Fine, fine._ You can be me for a day."

Her eyes, which were forlorn, suddenly glinted with eagerness.  She knew what I was going to let her do had been coming, which was why she ventured here.  I let it go.  It wasn't her fault she was omnipotent.  Or was it?  I should probably ask for her backstory, sometime soon.  I mean, she wasn't even in the typical  _archetype._ What was her story?

"You da bomb, little lamb," Hallah beamed.  A remote control appeared in her slender, olive complected hands.

I turned to Varric, Solas, and Blackwall.  "I apologize in advance for what you may see," I said.  

Then I began running.

Not of my own volition, of course.  It was as if something else was moving my legs, moving my body.  If I wanted, I seriously could have taken a nap while Hallah  _literally_ played with my "character."  She walked a few paces behind, cackling madly when I made  _oomph_ noises as she ran me into trees and off ridges.  When something lanced pain through my legs, arms, shoulders, and other various places, my hand always reached down and pulled up a health potion so I could choke it down.  

She had me charge right at a bear.  "Combo move!" I heard her scream.  I then pulled out my greatsword and did a few particular swings.  Huh.  So that really was a combo.  I just thought it was me being hardcore.  

I was swinging so wildly I nearly took off Blackwall's arm amidst the roaring of the bear.  "Maker's balls, my lady!" he yelled.  "Watch out!"

"It's not me, remember?" I shouted back, then cleaved my blade into the beast's neck.  The death was quick and clean.  

"Bear pelt!" Hallah crooned.  I knelt down and grabbed onto the fur and gave it a tug.  Then it just...

Disappeared.  

Then the rest of the carcass vanished with a puff of blue.  

The three of us gaped at the sight as Hallah let the control hover in the air while she took the hide--which was now clean and properly treated--and fastened it around her neck like a cloak.  She took the control once more and grinned, emerald eyes dancing with life and amusement.  

Inwardly, I shed a tear.  

"This is madness," Solas snapped tersely at the Traveler.  "You have plenty of other places to be than here, taking over the life of the Inquisitor."

Hallah only raised a black eyebrow at him and moved her thumb over one of the control's knobs.  I yelped as I was flung forward into him.  "Now kiss," she hissed creepily.  I  _knew_ what I did next was nowhere near a combo--it probably wasn't even  _legal_ in a game--but it left Solas blushing fiercely and Varric covering his eyes and Blackwall craning his head back at the sky.  

"You know, Al, I know you're a grown woman and can do your own thing," Varric groaned, "but I'm never going to get what just happened out of my head."

 _"It's not me!"_ I exclaimed.  I turned my attention back to Hallah, who was biting her lip with white teeth to keep from outright laughing.  "And you!  Stop making me molest Solas--"

I jumped up and down.  My face scrunched up in a scowl.  "Don't you dare--"

But I was silenced as I started to move through the Hinterlands, _repeatedly_ jumping up and down.  Solas tried stopping Hallah at one point and strode up to her to end it, but she only released her control on me and moved it to him.  Then  _he_ began jumping up and down.  The two of them talked briefly in ancient elvhen as he moved with the motion that happened when she pressed down on the X button.  

I wanted to be mad, but it  _was_ me who agreed to help Hallah have fun.  She honestly could have made me run straight off a cliff without me knowing that it was her controlling my every movement.  So I had to give her that.

With a resigned sigh, I began running again.

-

"...Don't actually like me all that much, for some reason," Hallah said as I picked a butt ton of elfroot.  Solas, Varric, and Blackwall lagged behind, exhausted from the insane amount of ground we covered.  "I  _want_ to say it's because I ripped a hole in their dimension right over Metropolis, but I can't be too sure."  She shrugged.  Hallah was now wearing the bear pelt, ram horns that magically attached themselves to the sides of her head, ten silver necklaces, and rings on almost all her fingers.  I didn't know how we got so much loot with her playing as me.  It wasn't fair.  "Whatever it is, I'm not exactly welcomed there."

"Can you beat Superman?" I asked as moved to yet another plant.  

"With, like, a kick to the head, yeah," Hallah said through a yawn.  Then her eyes lit up.  "Oh!  Maybe that's why!"

"Can you beat Batman?"

"After a long, arduous battle, yeah."

I hummed in contemplation at the thought of she and Bruce Wayne battling it out.  

"Can you beat Chuck Norris?"

She chuckled lowly in the back of her throat.  "Not even  _I_ want to think about what that fight would be like."

Varric flopped to the ground and sprawled out, too tired to move.  Solas and Blackwall quickly joined him.  

"Can you beat Saitama?  Or would he beat you?"

"Neither.  We would go grocery shopping together and then yell at pigeons.  And maybe save the world."

I scrunched my brows together and twisted my head to look at Hallah.  "Have you  _met_ One Punch Man?"

"You mean Caped Baldy?  'Course."

"Do they look like anime characters?  Or normal?"

She  _tsked._ "So many questions, Al, so many questions.  I think I'll just leave you to ponder that yourself."

"Can you beat Mr. Rogers?"

Hallah's jaw dropped and she gasped loudly, insulted.  "Annabelle Alaran Janette Hughes Lavellan!  Don't you even  _think_ about such a horrendous atrocity!"

I shot daggers at her with my eyes.   _"Don't_ call me that."

"Wait," Varric said as he wearily sat up, "your real name is--" _  
_

"Welp, I think I'm good for today!  Thanks for letting me play, Al!" Hallah interrupted.  "I can't wait to do this again!"

My vision went black.  For several moments all I heard was  _The Dawn Will Come_ playing on a violin.

Then I awoke standing at the foot of the stairs to Skyhold's main hall.

"Ugh," I muttered as I went to find Solas.   _"Travelers."_

 

 

 


	13. Snap

They were travelling through one of the piss-poor villages in Emprise du Lion, right as winter was in full-swing.  Iron Bull didn't like the cold  He _hated_ it.  Why did he even come along, again?

Oh, right.

 _I just need your_ big, strong... _muscles, Alaran said as she dramatically batted her silver eyelashes._

Yeah, sure.  The scrawny little elf rivaled even his strength.  Nah, she needed Bull for intimidation.  There were a few nobles that demanded the Inquisition come grace the house with their presence.  And with the dark look on Boss' face as she read the letter...well, they were going to get a presence and then some.

Blackwall and Sera were talking about something as they navigated through the streets horseback.  That's one other thing Bull liked about Boss.  She didn't insist on making everywhere she went have a grand parade for her.  Hell, if she had it her way they wouldn't even have the Inquisition's emblem emblazoned on their saddles to signify them as members.  People this far out hardly even had a clue what the Inquisitor looked like, either, so they could get away with moving conspicuously and casually through towns and when they rested in inns.  

As usual, Bull was keeping his eye sharp and focused on their surroundings.  There were a lot of people who didn't like the Inquisitor, and would be more than happy to see her dead.  Though he knew her own violet eyes were darting about the town beneath the hood that covered her head from the cold, it wouldn't hurt to remain doing so.  Besides, if he saved Boss' life, she'd have to fess up that he was the better watcher.  And that was worth any arrow.

It was probably at the same time did the two of them focus their attention on the door that burst open about twenty feet in front of them.  Some sorry excuse for a man was hauling a bawling, dirty child out onto their porch steps.  It was probably a little girl, but from the grime and the ragged, oversized clothes, Bull couldn't tell.  

The man started viciously beating his child with his bare fists.  The people on the street only averted their eyes from the despicable sight and kept going about their business.  It must not have been the first time this had happened.  

Bull's knuckles tightened on the reins he was holding.  "Wot the fock?" Sera yelled angrily as she saw what was happening.  "Somebody do somethin!"

It wasn't a secret that Boss had been beaten as a kid.  Well, it wasn't a secret to  _him._ There was a certain  _feel_ about those who had been abused in the past.  She wasn't an exception.  

Still, Bull hadn't expected Alaran to do what she did.

The Inquisitor easily slid herself out of her hart's saddle and landed softly on the fresh snow.  The crowds parted as she silently walked up to the scene.  Iron Bull got that gut feeling that shit was going to go down.  Undiplomatic shit.  The fun kind.

She made it up to the porch.  The father hadn't even noticed her approach.  The child, by now, had lowered their volume to pitiful whimpers.  Blood leaked from a cut on their head and nose.  

The first blow was a blur of porcelain.  The man's head snapped back and he toppled to the splintered, wooden floor, releasing his hold on his child.  Without delay, Alaran grabbed him by his mangy hair and drug him down the stairs and into the street.  The town had gone silent as they watched the scene unfold.

The man tried to fight back despite the daze he was undoubtedly in, staggering to his feet.  He flung a slur of curse words at Boss, who stood there silently, her cloak shifting in the slight wind.  Bull's blood should have boiled at the insults she was being berated with, but all he could do was feel cold pity for what was coming to that bastard.

She let him swing a punch just so she could grab his fist with her hand and break his knuckles and fingers with an iron squeeze.  The guy howled in pain and dropped to his knees.  But she wasn't finished.  Bull caught a glimpse of a straight, grim, berry-colored mouth before it disappeared underneath the hood of her cloak.

In one motion Alaran snapped the man's wrist backwards.  His ragged, agonized cry echoed throughout the street.  Next, she straightened his arm and viciously brought her free fist down onto his elbow.  It bent at the wrong angle and a  _crack_ produced from it.

The man slumped forward, the pain too great for him to stay conscious.  Finally, Alaran lifted her foot and drove it into his shoulder.  As soon as that was broken she dropped him onto the ground.  Bull realized that entire arm Boss had destroyed was the one he was using to beat his kid with.  And he would probably never be able to use it to its full function ever again.

Her hood had dropped upon the last blow, revealing a face full of cold fury that rivaled the bitterest winter nights.  Violet eyes crackled--no,  _raged--_ with lightning.  Braided white hair slung over her shoulder, a scorpion's tail.  

Then, without another glance, Alaran stepped over the unconscious body and walked calmly over to the child, which Bull was fairly certain was a girl.  She crouched down and spoke to the kid, her voice too soft for him to pick it up.  The girl didn't look at all disturbed as she watched what had happened to her father.  She only gave single, definite nods as Boss talked.  

The same hand that had destroyed her father's entire arm unfastened the button to her heavy cloak and slung it around the child's shoulders.  Alaran scooped her up in her arms and walked back to the party, who were all regarding her with looks of vague horror, appreciation, and respect.  Except for Bull.  

Because, even as the rest of them were introduced to the newest member of the Inquisition and let what they had just witnessed slip to the back of their minds, he didn't.  Iron Bull had just seen the Inquisitor snap.  He had just seen her weakness, her nerve, her blind spot.  It could savagely be used against the Inquisitor.

But he would let Leliana's people deal with it.  After all, he was only a Tal-Vashoth.  


	14. Mana, Manna

"...Mana sustains it," Solas pointed out to Dorian.

The Tevinter immediately countered, "Yes,  _but_ without any recurrence in the electromagnetic field, then you'd basically be depleting your mana without so much as a goodbye!  Which is  _why_ it's such a risk to use.  You'd be dead before you knew it."

"More of the powerful mages who can sense when their mana is depleting know when to quit.  So it is a high risk, yes, but a high reward, as well," Solas said back.  

Alaran whirled on the two of them.  "Where does the word 'mana' originate from in Thedas?" she asked suddenly.  Though her face was straight, lightning danced in her eyes.  Ah.  She wanted to play.

"Why do you inquire, Inquisitor?" Solas said.

"Ah, yes, I'm the Inquisitor inquiring an inquiry.  Very inquisiting.  We are the Inquisition, after all.  To inquire is to inquist, and to inquist is to Inquisitor, and I am the Inquisitor.  Inquiring."

"What are you getting at, darling?" Dorian sighed witheringly.  Alaran was walking backwards, by now.  

"Well, where  _I'm_ from, manna--with two n's, mind you--derives from an old language called Hebrew.  Do either of you speak Hebrew?  No?  I thought not.  Neither do I, but I remember in one of my religion classes I learned why the Jews called it that when it fell from heaven."

"It fell from heaven?  Your world believes in a heaven?" Solas began spouting.  She waved him off.

"We can get into the metaphysical beliefs of my land later, babe.  Right now I just wanted to share with you that manna literally means 'What's this?'  Or...I  _think_ that's what it means.  Because the Jews had no idea what the freak it even was!  It gave them sustenance in the wilderness, though, and was pretty radical, if you think about it.  So, what I'm trying to get at, is that whenever I hear any of you say 'mana' I think of that.  And I laugh!"  On cue, Alaran threw her head back and let out a hearty guffaw.  The motion put her balance off-kilter, causing her heel to catch in the dirt.  The laugh was cut off as she toppled backwards.  

Dorian and Solas gazed at the Herald as she stared up at the sky, curious to know what she would do next.  

In a low voice, she then sang a rendition of _Enchanter._

 _"Oh manna come to me,  
__Oh manna come to me,_  
Oh manna come to eat,  
_Can-a you, can-a you, come to me?"_

Her laughter sparked once more.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This exact scene went through my head when the term 'manna' came up in my college religion class. It was all I could think about for the rest of the day.
> 
> Shortest, stupidest chapter ever, but I have no ragrets.


	15. Kirkwall 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and Kirkwall, together again.

The look on all their faces when I said that I didn't drink was priceless.  I would have to draw it later.

First I would have to get a drawing pad and some coal, though.  

"But hey," I said with my arms spread wide, "I'm still a good time."

Hawke, Isabela, Varric, and Anders all booed at me.  I let the hate roll in with a proud smile.  But who was it that was going to be dragging their sorry asses back to where they belonged when Aveline wasn't around?  That's right.  Me.  Because when I wasn't running around being the Captain of the Guard's little elven lackey, I was being her exemplar.  Or...semi-exemplar.  Actually, it was more like 1/4 exemplar.  I didn't really care.  Kirkwall made my typical goal-oriented, go-getter attitude dissipate into a level of carefreeness and nonchalance. Or maybe it was due to the people I chose to spend my time with. Probably the latter.

"Come on, Hawke, let's get you home," I said as I hauled the scruffy mage up out of the chair. Isabela was still going strong, and I'm sure she still would be by the time I got back. Everybody else had thrown in the towel about an hour ago. 

As the two of us took the trek back to his house, I prayed that we wouldn't be met by bandits. I hadn't been trapped by them, yet, but the sliver of the moon and the overcast sky provided a prime night for mugging, mauradering, and murdering. Not in that same order, either. 

"Al," Hawke mused drunkenly as we neared the stairs to his home, "how did you end up here?"

"I told you," I responded evenly, "I don't remember."

 _"Psh._ We all know you're lying.  None of us just have the heart to tell you."

"Thank you for telling me, Hawke."

"You're welcome."

The house was dark and quiet when we stumbled in.  I wanted to apologize to Leandra for the ruckus, but decided it best to just toss Hawke in his bed and make sure he was face-up before I quickly sneaked out.  I did just that--I was even generous and took off the future Champion's boots as he had already begun to snore--and tip-toed back outside.  

As soon as I was in the open air once more, fear tightened my stomach.  Kirkwall, for all its spunk and originality...was a poop hole.  A dangerous poop hole.  

My laughter echoed too loudly against the buildings.  I shut my mouth with a  _snap_ and hurried at a fast pace back to the Hanged Man.  Too soon did I feel eyes on me, watching, waiting.  

My steps quickened.

_You should really invest in a knife.  A long, six-foot knife._

_A sword.  Literally.  It's called a sword._

"Now what's a pretty lit'l knife-ear scamperin' around at these dark hours?"

_Make that two six-foot knives._

I slowly turned my head to the left and right of me, evaluating any chance of escape with the eight or so bandits encircling me.  They knew I didn't have any money, from my thin leggings and over-sized, worn gray tunic.  

_Boots.  That's what they wanted.  They wanted my boots._

I glanced down at the ugly, endearing footwear.  

_No.  Not boots.  Boobs._

Shit.

The first one that lunged at me got a swift kick to the groin.  I sucked in a lungful of air to scream as loudly as possible, but there were still seven bandits left.  One clamped a grimy, putrid hand over my mouth while another yanked my legs out from under me.  I kicked as fiercely as I could and nearly got free, but two others held me down.  "She'll make for a fierce one," the same bandit who spoke to me in the first place commented with a gaping, rotting grin.  "The ships'll love her.  Don't know why so many 'ave a thing for knife-ears."  He neared me, but I slashed a hand out in defense to stop him.

The bandit leader expected that, and gripped it with his own.  When the other came out of blind instinct, he did the same.  "Kol, hold 'er hands like a good little boy, will ya?"

My hands were taken up by another man--this one the beefiest out of all of them--as the leader gazed down at me.  My body was still writhing fiercely, but it did little good when the rest of me was held down.  "Ya know what gives you knife-ears away in the dark?  It's them glowing eyes.  Heard it was some nocturnal bullshit or whatever.  But you still didn't see us coming, did ya?"  

With a slimy smirk he roughly shoved a hand up my loose tunic and painfully squeezed my breast.  This time I did scream, but it was almost completely muffled by the maw covering my mouth.  "Hidin' such beauties away, huh?"  

A knife glinted in the dark.  I screamed again, expecting it to plunge into my abdomen, but it only sliced my shirt open, revealing a plain breast band and a smooth stomach.  "We'll get a good price for ya, lass.  Don't worry."  The bandit leader had the gall to wink after making his statement.  

"Cap," said the bandit who was keeping me silent.  "We should test her out, first.  Make sure she's sailor material.  Don't you think?"

"That's an excellent idea--"

Hot blood spurted on my face as the bandit leader's head was lopped off from his body.  I was dropped to the ground as the bandits scrambled to see who had just killed their boss.  

"Seriously," Carver sighed, a bored expression on his pale face.  "I got out of bed for this?"

He made short work of the bandits all on his own.  I managed to get out of the way in time before I became another one of the corpses lying on the ground.  My shirt--which had been my favorite--was now basically a jacket, with the way it was cleanly cut down the middle.  I wrapped it around me the best I could.  

The younger Hawke pulled out a rag and began cleaning his greatsword as he approached me.  He hadn't even been in battle armor when he...when he basically saved my life.

"You alright?" he inquired bluntly.  I gave a nod, refusing to speak until I was sure my voice wouldn't betray me.  

After a few deep breaths and a swallow, I said, "Thanks, Carver."

He shrugged and sheathed his sword behind his back.  Hey...hadn't I chosen the warrior option when I was creating my  _Dragon Age: Inquisition_ character?  "Don't mention it."

"Oh, I'll definitely mention it," I said with a weak laugh.  "I'm going to tell Varric all about how you swooped in like a hero and saved me from vicious thugs."

Carver scoffed.  "Yeah, like he or anybody would listen," he said bitterly.  "If it's not about Garrett, then it's not worth hearing."

Ah.   _There_ was the reason why I never liked him in the game.  "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't get the invitation to your Pity Party," I said with biting sarcasm.  I tossed my hair back with a slightly trembling hand.  "You know, if you stop whining about how you're under Garrett's shadow, all the time, then maybe you could actually  _do_ something about it."

He scowled to such perfection that it had to have been practiced a million times over.  "You don't know anything about my life, elf.  You think you can judge everybody because you've been here three months, but--"

I angrily strode up to Carver and flicked the tip of his nose.  "Ow!  Hey!" he sputtered as he cupped the spot where my fingernail had made contact with his skin.  

"You do realize that you're arguing with somebody who nearly got raped and kidnapped," I whispered loudly.  "Somebody who is genuinely appreciative of you taking action and saving them.  So suck up and buck up, Carver.  Because I'm thankful for you.  Not Garrett.  In fact, that ass was the reason I ended up here so late, because he wanted me to walk him home despite nobody else wanting to come with us."  I jammed the same finger that flicked Carver's nose into his chest.  "Now quit acting like a little boy and walk me back to the Hanged Man."

He looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time, and not just a wiry little elf that hung around their squad.  "Y-yes ma'am."

"Don't call me ma'am.  My name is Alaran."

"Okay, Alaran."

With how shaky my knees were from the adrenaline still coursing through  my body, I hooked my arm with Carver's for support.  He looked down in surprise, but said nothing.  We began to walk back to the seedy bar that so many called their home.  

"Do you miss your sister?" I asked aloud in the dark when the silence was near maddening.

"Every day," Carver replied somberly.  "She...she was my twin, after all.  Maker, she annoyed me so much sometimes, but when she wasn't..."

"You should be glad you got to know her as much as you did, though," I said mildly.  "I was an only child.  And my parents were shit.  So even though you have to carry the burden of losing a sister..."  _and soon your mother,_ "at least you got good memories with her."

"...I suppose that's true."  A pause.  "Do you miss your people?  Your kind?"

I gave a snort, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my breast while coming up with an answer at the same time.  "You don't have to ask me questions just to keep conversation.  I'm perfectly fine strolling in silence."

"Yes, because making a hasty retreat to the Hanged Man is  _such_ a stroll," Carver shot back.  "And believe it or not, but I can actually have a decent conversation with people when I'm feeling up to it."

"Why don't you say that a little louder, huh?  Maybe then the Arishok can hear you and come put his two coppers in."

We shared similar, sarcastic looks between each other before the two of us broke down in soft chuckles.  "You're a sassy little shit," I muttered.

"It takes one to know one."

We neared the seedy tavern, which was still exuding muffled noises of laughter, yelling, and music.  Isabela was probably at the center of it all.  

"You still didn't answer my question," Carver said.  I rolled my eyes.

 _"Ugh._ Fine.  No, no I don't miss my 'kind.'  Because why should I miss those who would never miss me in the first place?  There.  Happy?"

"I'm never happy," Carver sighed knowingly.  

I still gave a small smile.  "Yeah, I guess saving somebody's life would make anybody really unhappy."

"Shut it."

Carver stopped as soon as we reached the door.  I could smell the tang of ale and piss even from out here.  "Well, I bid thee farewell, o honorable knight," I said with a horrible curtsy.  Imitating clutching my skirt opened my torn tunic.  Carver's face turned a bright shade of red and he quickly averted his eyes.  My smile turned into a smirk.  "Are you sure you can handle yourself walking back alone?  I think I was the one guiding us through the dark."

"Don't worry, o fair maiden," Carver replied with a curt bow.  "I've walked these streets in the dark too many times to count.  Plus I have a nice friend strapped to my back who's quite persuasive."

I groaned.  "You did not just make the most cliche comparison with your sword.  You know what?  I'll pretend I didn't hear that, and you can be on your way."  I opened the door, gave a salute to Carver--who was showing a rare smile himself--and slipped in.

My feet carried me to my room.  Isabela called out for me to join her, but I only pointed to upstairs to signal where I wanted to go.  My tunic was once again wrapped around my waist, so it looked like I was just crossing my arms.

It was only when I closed my bedroom door behind me that I slumped to the floor and let my emotions wash over me.  I hated being weak, but I hated it even more so in front of others.  

So there was only one solution to the problem of my weakness.  

Get strong.

-

"You know, I'm all for elves swinging big shiny metal things around," Varric drawled, sitting down at the same table I was at, "but are you really sure that you can even pick up one of them?  You're pretty tiny, and Broody's all lyrium-juiced to be able to do what he does.  Plus, he has that whole Fueled-By-Vengeance thing going on, too.  What do you have to spur your strength?"  I paused, my forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to my mouth.  

It was brief.  I loved eggs too much.

"Protein, riboflavin, and selenium.  But not enough of the last one to kill aliens."  I raised an eyebrow in thought.  "Unless the people here are considered aliens.  Or unless  _I'm_ considered an alien."  My next bite of eggs was a more ponderous one.  

"Ya know, you seem pretty normal and average  _until_ you open your mouth," Varric said with a hesitant chuckle.  "But nice made-up words."

I scoffed into my plate of eggs. _Yeah, you guys just keep believing in your humors and whatnot and rely on magic.  In the meantime,_ I'm _going to give my body the proper nutrients it needs, and pray that my cells don't backstab me again._

"See?  That's weird, right there!"

I choked on the food in my mouth as I laughed.  "S-sorry, Varric.  I'm--I'm going to g-go, now."  I pushed up my sleeves before I got too toasty and picked up my plate.

"What is that."

 _Poopsicles._ "Uh, it's an empty plate.  Do you want to borrow it?  I can tell the cook to put some more on--"

"Alaran."

"You know, I really hate it when you go into Concerned Friend mode.  I thought you were a selfish bastard?"  I sighed and balanced the empty plate on my head as I talked, positioning my feet in the same style that I learned when I took ballet classes as a little child.  Or, rather, when my mother forced me to.  "Whilst dropping the drunken Hawke off at his humble abode last night, I was attacked by bandits.  They incapacitated me and honked a boob squooze, talked about selling a dagger-ear like myself to a ship or something, and then got killed."

"Killed?  By who?"

 _"Whom._ I thought you would know proper English, Varric.  Wait--Common.  Proper Common.  And it was Carver.  He heard me dropping off Garrett and used his good conscience to follow me.  Then he kindly escorted me back to the Hanged Man.  Did I mention that one of the bandits ripped my favorite tunic?  I was so freakin  _pissed._ Still am--ah shit."

My plate slid off my head and clattered to the floor.  "So, now you know why I want to train with Aveline.  That way, I can get swol and pumped."  I pushed my lips out and scrunched up my face as I flexed and did body-builder movements.  Varric was in the internal state of being furious and confused.  I let him stew as I took my plate back to the kitchen.  When I came back he looked ready to talk.  A lot.

"I knew I should have gone with you two, but--"

 _"Shhh,_ I know what you're already going to say.  And frankly, my dwarf, I don't give a damn." 

"Why did your voice change?"

"What?"

"Your voice.  It changed when you said that last sentence.  If there's a joke going on between--Oh, yeah, just go ahead and walk out on me.  And thanks for the finger!"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yeah, I like this idea. I'm going to keep at it.


	16. Dovahkiin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short snippet of Skyggen's life before she was yanked into Thedas.

The stars were bright, Skyggen's belly was full with some steamed mudcrab legs and Honningbrew mead, and her pack was full of coin and treasures from the cave she had just "excavated."  It had been a good night, worthy of the Divines' approval.  Or whichever one she had most recently pledged herself to.  She could never keep track.  Too many diseases from skeevers or draugers or spiders was because of that.

Astrid would be expecting her return, soon.  The woman wasn't fond of Skyggen's wanderings, though she couldn't deny that the Dragonborn was an expert at killing and a fine addition to the Brotherhood, especially since she would have received word of Cicero's demise.  Soon she would find that Skyggen was worth even more than she first thought; her connections to both The Companions, College of Winterhold, and the Thieves Guild would be of substantial benefit.  Yes.   _Connections._ They didn't need to know that Skyggen was actually in charge of all of them, as well as the Thane of...oh, how many Holds?  And they didn't need to know that she could ask Ulfric Stormcloak for anything and everything, and give him advice he would listen to.   _Nor_ did they need to know that she was a very important member at the Bard's College (Skyggen just wanted to go there to improve her speech, because she was the Dragonborn and for some reason people listened to what she had to say.  But not only did she learn how to speak better, she learned how to sing, read poetry, act, and dance).  

Not that she wanted any of the titles.  One moment, she had been a thief, waking up in the back of a cart with a horse thief and some Stormcloaks, awaiting her execution on the butcher's block.  The next, she was killing dragons and consuming their souls, making her way to High Hrothgar, and defeating Alduin the World-Eater.  But that had been what, three years ago?  

A lot had happened in three years.

Lydia said that she should bear the Amulet of Mara around her neck and attract a mate, said that men and women lusted after Khajiits like herself, said that they'd proudly take an arrow to the knee for her.  It wasn't an unappealing option; Vilkas had shown hints of interest, and was a fine companion.  But so had Aela, and she was as beautiful as she was dangerous.  There were others, too, that Skyggen wouldn't mind taking as a mate, a partner.  

But she was cursed with wanderer's feet, always restless and in pursuit of adventure.  The beauty of Skyrim filled the hollow loneliness that threatened to consume Skyggen's heart.  She was reluctant to tie herself down, to make her partner worry whenever she was gone.  

Then there was Shadowmere.

That horse was...not a horse.  She swore that not only did she see him take a bite out of a bandit when they were ambushed by some, but  _swallowed_ the chunk of raw human flesh.  

"Stop staring at me," Skyggen snapped as the horse's red eyes bore into her from across the small campfire she sat next to.  

Shadowmere whinnied softly.  

Skyggen stuck out her tongue.

He snorted.

She rolled her yellow eyes and stretched out on her bedroll, a flick of her hand extinguishing the fire.  She had only needed it for her meal.  The night would have been cool to humans, elves, and Argonians, but Skyggen had her pelt to keep her warm and her night vision to enable her to see in the dark.  Besides, Secunda and Masser were full and bright, and the stars that were created by the Magne Ge were twinkling against the swirling purple aurora.  Was she this far up north?  Or was it just a rare event that Skyggen had the opportunity of witnessing?

Falling asleep with the night sky as her blanket was better than any bed covering that an inn, home, or establishment provided.

-

Windhelm.

Why the fuck was she traveling to Windhelm, again?  It was always so  _cold._ Though Skyggen didn't typically mind it because of her layer of furry warmth, the frigid wind that accompanied the region clawed at any heat she had, conjured or not.  

Shadowmere hated the cold, too.  He was a snarky pain in the ass in the first place, but when he was exposed to less-than-pleasant temperatures, he became downright belligerent.  

Again:  why the fuck was she traveling to Windhelm?

Oh!  That's right!  Because  _apparently_ the Dragonborn's opinion on the matter of the Grey Quarter was important!  She didn't see why she couldn't just write a letter and send a courier to the Palace of the Kings, informing them of her thoughts.  The letter would have gone:

_Dear Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak,_

_When I, the Dragonborn, decided to ally with the rebellion, I was promised that afterwards the matter of the Dunmer residents would be resolved.  The high, ridiculous taxes on their quarter would be lowered to the same amount the rest of Windhelm has to pay, and they, along with other minorities, would be treated equally, and all segregation abolished.  Skyrim is as much their home as it is to the Nords.  Let them live in it freely and happily._

_If I don't see you following through, I will personally destroy you with my Thu'um (which is far greater than yours, by the way.  Because I'm the Dragonborn).  So don't fuck it up._

_Sincerely,  
Skyggen _

But  _no._ She had to go sit in some session at a very serious table, dressed in actual clothes, for once, and not her Brotherhood garb.  That was stashed away in one of her packs, practically calling for her.  The Night Mother had been silent, but her presence was nestled inside Skyggen's mind, comforting and assuring, gently urging her to put the clothing back on.  Along with it was the dragon priest Morokei's mask.  Nazir said the color clashed with the Dark Brotherhood attire, but she was never one to be fashionably consistent.  

It would have to wait, though the thought of everybody gaping at her red and black attire in fear and intimidation brought a smile to her lips.  It  _would_ persuade them to heed her suggestions.  

The stableboy bowed deeply and jerkily as Skyggen hopped off Shadowmere's back.  She usually didn't like him staying inside a city's walls, but that was mostly due to countless hasty departures.  Particularly in Markarth.  She was hated there, for some reason, and most visits resulted in fleeing on Shadowmere's back as she dodged arrows.  

"Give him a blanket and some warm water," Skyggen instructed as she lowered the hood of her cloak.  "And keep away from his mouth; he tends to bite, especially when he's hungry."

She didn't mean to frighten the boy, but his face paled and his eyes widened.  With a sigh, Skyggen turned to her companion and pulled his bridle so his face was level with hers.  "Listen, you bastard," she muttered lowly.  "Don't go taking limbs off like you usually relish in doing.  Be good, and I'll hunt us an elk to eat.  Got it?  For once, just be a normal horse."

Shadowmere stared flatly back at her, then rolled his red eyes before giving a response of agreement.  She huffed and handed the reins over to the stableboy and walked out before he could be even more scared out of his wits.

-

"You could at least sit like you haven't been in the wilderness for Divines know how long," Galmar said to Skyggen as they sat in the hall.  She snorted as she ate another sweetroll.  They weren't as sweet as some she had eaten, before, which meant that they weren't really sweetrolls at all.  Not to Skyggen, at least.  Anything with sugar had to have  _a lot_ in it if she were to be able to taste it.  

"Says the Nord who is wearing a bear on his head," Skyggen said back, but straightened in her seat.  

Galmar chuckled.  "Ah, I'd almost forgotten what a pleasant personality you have, Skyggen."

"When you stand next to my funeral pyre, may the words  _pleasant personality_ be the first description you tell," she smirked.  

"If anybody even finds your body, with the way you go about doing everything on your own, thinking you're immortal."

"I  _do_ have the souls of countless dragons inhabiting my body."   _Except for Alduin's._

"By the Divines, you always have to throw that in my face, don't you?" Galmar grumbled.  Skyggen was about to further their conversation, but Ulfric called the hall to order.  

She breathed through her nostrils and kept her tail from twitching.  This...was not going to be short and simple.

-

Skyggen couldn't find it in herself to sleep in an actual bed.  She was too used to the solid ground, not this feathered nonsense, with the plush blankets and fluffy pillows that would have been anybody else's dream come true.  Besides, she always felt bad when she left some of her hair for the servants to clean up, even if it technically wasn't her fault that she shed.  

So it came as a complete relief when she was back in Shadowmere's saddle--who had, fortunately, not bitten anybody--and on her way out from Windhelm.  She had bid Galmar farewell and a few other associates she knew, but made no other notion of announcing her departure.  Ulfric knew her pattern; if he was irritated, it never showed.  

She should head back to Dawnstar to check in on Nazir, Babette, and some of the other new recruits they had gotten.  She should check in at the College to see how everything was running.  She should do a lot of things.  

But the lust for adventure pulsing through Skyggen's veins was too great to ignore.

"You know what to do, friend," she whispered in Shadowmere's black ear.

There was barely enough time to grab onto the saddle horn before the horse lunged forward into a full gallop.  He veered off the path and into the snowy landscape, his breath coming in snorts as steam trailed from his nostrils.  Skyggen felt herself grinning.  The was what freedom felt like.  Why would she ever want to give this back up?  Skyrim was her heart, her soul, her lover, her--

Shadowmere screamed and halted so suddenly Skyggen was ejected from the saddle and flew over his head.  She landed in the powdery snow with a loud _oomph._

After adjusting Morokei, she turned back around to yell at the unholy bastard that threw her off.   _"Ruth hi, fos lost tol fah?"_ Skyggen demanded, cursing in Dovah as she rose to her feet.  Paarthunax would have never taught her such language.  Odaviing, on the other hand...

He snorted and flipped his head up and down.   _Look behind you, you sodding fuck!_

Skyggen looked over her shoulder and...

By the Nine.  It was beautiful.

She slipped off Morokei and tasted the foreign magic with her tongue, inching for it.  It seemed that the tear was in the very fabric of reality.  Where did it lead to?  Anywhere at all?  The mana that pulsated off was, while strange, not threatening.  Perhaps a bit cruder, yes, but certainly ancient and full of stories and teachings waiting to be shared.  Shadowmere, who was usually calm under pressure, was snorting and stomping his great big feet, commanding her to get back.   _"Laas yah nir,"_ she Shouted--well, whispered.  The response she got was nearly overwhelming.  It was as if there was an entirely new  _world_ on the other side of the tear.  

Tolfir would gaze at her disappointingly for a season if she didn't let him come research this.  Colette would do more than gaze disappointingly.  Drevis would probably turn her into a horker.  And Urag would ban her from the library, even though she was the Arch-Mage.  They'd all want to see.  

Skyggen's scholarly mind was already turning.  Could this lead to Aetherius?  Most likely not.  Skyggen would recognize the magic.  Could this lead to a different planet entirely?  Possibly.  Was it in the solar system?  Another?  A different galaxy altogether?  The implications of this could shake Nirn forever--

A  _force_ gripped the arm she was reaching out with and pulled her near the tear.  It was more than magic; it just  _was._ Ancient, unrelenting, neutral, and immensely powerful.  The Night Mother and the other Daedric Princes she had pledged herself to all cried out to her simultaneously, creating a cacophony of energy that nearly burned away her soul.

"Shadowmere!" Skyggen gasped, stretching her other hand to him.  He lunged to grip onto her sleeve, red eyes brimming with frantic worry.   _Ha!_ Bastard.  He did care about her, after all.

It was too late.

Skyggen was yanked into a world of green.

Then into another world entirely.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ruth hi, fos lost tol fah?" - Damn you, what was that for?  
> "Laas yah nir" - aura whisper
> 
> Also, it's been my headcanon that Shadowmere is a mean s.o.b. who eats more on the carnivorous side and has a dark, snarky, but loyal personality.


	17. Sutherland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little encounter.

Maker.  Oh, Maker, Maker, Maker.  Maker give him strength.

What was he even doing here?  Sutherland had come to Skyhold to warn the Inquisition of bandits, but  _this was the Inquisition._ He had no idea where to start.  He should have just stayed home on the farm, minded his own business, and used his money to buy a Ferelden Forder instead of making the journey to come up here.  Now Sutherland was broke, cold, hungry, and still no further in alerting anybody--

"Ooh.  You look like you could use a drink," a feminine voice said.  Sutherland looked up from the window he was staring out of...then down.

A white-haired elf with Dalish markings on her face stared back up at him, a small smile on her dark lips.  "Everything alright?"  Violet eyes too intelligent to belong to somebody who looked so young peered questioningly at Sutherland.

"Wh...oh, yes.  Yes, everything is...fine," Sutherland sputtered.  Maker, she sure was, er,  _pretty._

"Really?"  The elf took up a seat across from him and propped up her chin.  She wore a dark blue sleeveless jacket with a long-sleeved maroon tunic underneath, olive green trousers clinging to her legs and black boots coming up to her thighs.  She looked as if she was coming from a long adventure, if not for the fact that her clothes were clean.  Sutherland wondered what she did around her.  Certainly not servant work.  Maybe she worked in the stables?  He got a look at Master Dennet's mini-kingdom; it was a fine thing to behold.  "You have the look of a man who's got something on his mind."

"Well..." he started reluctantly, then sighed heavily.  "Oh, who am I kidding?  I'm probably just going to go back home, anyways," he muttered to himself before clearing his throat and explaining.  "There's some bandits stalking the Inquisition's patrols that I spotted.  Nobody else seemed to see them except for me."

"Which patrol?" the elf asked, her voice idle and casual.

"The one southeast of Lake Calenhad," Sutherland answered.  "I couldn't tell you much more about what patrol they specifically were."

"You know," she said, "if you squint your eyes, Lake Calenhad looks almost like a bunny.  From a map point-of-view, of course.  Not when you're looking at it in real life.  Then you'd just be squinting at water."

Her words brought a surprising laugh to Sutherland's lips, which seemed to release some tension he'd been holding.  "I'll keep that in mind, next time I'm looking at a map."

"Good," she winked.  A serving girl passed, but was stopped by a lightly raised hand from the elf.  "Hey, Tarie, would you be willing to get the two of us the tavern special?  You know which one I'm talking about."

Tarie gave a short curtsy.  "Of course.  What would you want for the cheese?"

The elf put both the back of her closed fingers underneath her chin and batted long eyelashes at the girl.  "Gouda's my favorite," she beamed.  

As soon as Tarie departed, Sutherland immediately started to say, "Honestly, it's really not necessary for you to do this.  I'm sure you've got other things, and you don't need to be paying for my meal."

But she only smiled.  "I want to, though.  Oh, hey, I never got your name.  What is it, if I may ask?"

"Sutherland, ma'am," he replied.  "A-and you?"  Maker, she was... _really_ pretty.  And nice.  And she smelt like lavender.

"Alaran," she said, her eyes glinting as if she expected for him to react a certain way.

The name  _sounded_ familiar, but Sutherland had never been good with names in general.  He held out his hand for her to shake.  Delicate yet strong porcelain hands gripped it in return.  "Good to meet you, Alaran."

"You too, Sutherland."  

Tarie came back with a platter of ram roast, a loaf of hot bread with butter, and sliced cheese, presumably Gouda.  Sutherland couldn't help but dig into it; Andraste's knickers, he was hungry.  

She helped herself out to some, too, but let him partake of the majority.  During that time, Alaran asked questions about where he grew up, what his life was like, and how it came to be that he saw the bandits.  Sutherland answered them all between bites, silently glowing at the attention he was receiving with her direct eye contact and attentive demeanor.  "But," he eventually said, "I doubt anybody here will listen to me.  Or that I can speak loud enough to be heard in the first place."

"Well, I know a few people who I could talk to," Alaran said reassuringly.  "Don't worry; we'll make sure those patrols are safe.  Oh, and if you could to go with the small contingent that'll be sent to the patrols, would you?"

"Maker, yes," he chuckled.  "I want to help.  In any way I can."

That brought a larger smile to her face, which made his cheeks burn.  "That's good to hear.  The Inquisition could use more people like yourself, Sutherland."

"O-oh, I d-didn't think I'd be a  _part_ of t-the Inquisition," he stuttered.  Her head tilted a fraction and the one exposed, elongated ear twitched.

"Why not?"

"W-well..."  Sutherland couldn't come up with a good enough reason to tell Alaran.  "I-I don't know.  I guess I could, b-but..."

"You don't have to be part of the Inquisition directly to help out," she went on.  "Any aid, whether it come straight from the War Room or through an extended offer, is welcome."

He was about to open his mouth to reply, but they were interrupted by one of the messengers he saw dashing about during his time here.  "Inquisitor," the young man spoke, "Lady Nightingale requests your presence to discuss..."  Brown eyes flickered over to him.  "Matters."

Sutherland felt his stomach, his heart,  _everything_ drop to the floor.

Inquisitor Alaran Lavellan smiled at the messenger; it was a different smile, one that was used to regally dismiss the man.  She looked back over to Sutherland and made a face.  "Welp.  Now you know.  It was really nice while it lasted, so thank you," she said sincerely.

He opened and closed his mouth several times before being able to even make a sound.  "Y-you're t-t-the..."

"Inquisitor?  Herald of Andraste?  Grand Enchantress of the Imperial Court?  Wait, that last one is Vivienne's.  Yikes, I had better not make that mistake again," Inquisitor Lavellan finished smoothly.  She stood.  Sutherland followed hastily, bumping his knees against the table and nearly knocking his chair down.  Should he bow?  How low?  Maker, he  _didn't know how to bow._ Was it just like he thought, or was it actually different?  Did his arms remain at his sides, or did one cross over his chest?  Was he going to get put to the butcher's block for not recognizing the leader of the Inquisition?  Did--

Her light chuckle broke through his hysteria.  "Easy, easy.  It's alright, Sutherland, I promise.  Breathe.  Breathe."  

"I-I am so, so sorry, I-Inquisitor," he stammered pathetically.  "I..."

"What are you sorry for?  Now I know something that'll protect my people because of you.  Thank you, Sutherland.  You were a great help in coming here.  Go down to the barracks and talk to a Ser Delrin Barris; he'll get you set and outfitted with all the things necessary.  Do you have a place to stay tonight?"  He shook his head.  "Okay, tell him that, too.  I'll make sure Commander Cullen checks in to see that everything is in order for the journey tomorrow."

"Journey?" he repeated dumbly.

"Yes.  I'm going to go to the War Room with my advisers after my meeting with Leliana to start the operation.  Then you're going to take the Inquisition and help get rid of those bandits."

Inquisitor Alaran smiled once more.  "I'll see you around, Sutherland."

She turned and descended the staircase, leaving him standing there for several minutes, trying to comprehend what just happened.

Then a certain realization came crashing down on him.

_He thought the Inquisitor was one of the prettiest girls he'd ever met._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sutherland. I've always liked him, and wished he had a bit more screen time. Just from the way he talks in the game made me get this little snippet swirling around in my head. He's a cinnamon roll, that's for sure.


	18. Pink Eye

"Gah," Varric grumbled as he stepped out of his tent. He was furiously rubbing his eye, a rare scowl scrunching up his face.

"Something the matter, Master Tethras?" I asked as I braided my hair by the renewed campfire.  Solas glanced up from the fried potatoes he was making in a cast-iron skillet over the flame.

"It's just my eye," he said, taking a seat next to me.  "I woke up and now it's itching like crazy."

"Uh oh," I murmured.  "Let me see."

"Al, it's fine--"

I clamped down on his wrist and jerked it away.  There was no way that I wasn't going to laugh at what I saw.  

"What?" Varric growled as I leaned over and snorted into Solas' shoulder.

"Did somebody fart on your pillow?" I grinned.

"What kind of question is that?"

I straightened and finished braiding my hair, tying it with my leather band.  "You have pink eye, Varric.  Or, as I liked to call it as a child, poop eye."

"Okay, har har, you have advanced knowledge in everything," Varric said sourly, "but could you please explain what that is?"

"It's most likely bacteria in your eye.  Remember what that is?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Well one of the causes for that can come from fecal matter.  Or just poop stuff in your world's terminology."  I then warily looked throughout the camp, my long-gone days of germophobia slowly trickling back.  We had been on the road for two weeks, so that meant whatever had bacteria on it that caused Varric's pink eye was somewhere in this camp.  Or he had touched something recently that now had his gunk.  

"Alaran..." Solas said slowly, "I have known not to enjoy what comes next after that look."

I stood, tossing my braid back and taking a deep breath.  "Don't let them know, Alaran," I whispered to myself.  "Don't let them know that they're a bunch of unhygienic beasts that don't know how to wash their hands."

"Hey!" Varric protested.  "We can hear you!"

"We need to wash everything," I breathed.  "I am not getting pink eye.  I haven't had pink eye since I was six.  Little kids get pink eye, not grown ups."

Iron Bull ducked out from under his own tent, good eye squinting.  "Ugh, Boss, something's wrong with my eye," he rumbled deep in his chest.  "But I think I can still fight if we need to."

"No..." Solas groaned softly, but focused back on the potatoes he was cooking and tuned out the world around him.

I whirled on Bull.  "It's too late.  It's already begun."

He took a step towards me but I danced away.  "No," I said sharply, like he was a bad dog.  "No.  Stay."

"Boss?"

"Don't you think you're overreacting?" Varric called as I made my way into the woods.  "It's just an itchy eye.  It'll go away in a day or so."

"For all we know it could be viral," I shouted over my shoulder.  "That means it could last up to three weeks and spread to everybody.  This is an epidemic!"

"Where are you going?"

"To call in for reinforcements!"

As soon as I was out of sight from everybody at camp, I fell to my knees and pressed my hands together, tilting my head up to the heavens.  "Oh, Hallah, sweet Hallah Lynne, please help me with this horrible problem.  Please use your omnipotent, never-ending powers to bless me with some antibacterial soap and hand sanitizer.  Please help me stop this before it destroys us all."

I was shrouded in a warm, comforting aura that smelled of sweet lemons.  Then, in words more felt than heard, came Hallah Lynne's response.

_"Embrace the pink eye.  It is the only thing you know, now."_

The warm feeling abruptly ended.  I turtle-frowned and flipped off the sky.  "Assface."

_"Dingleball."_

With a sigh I stood and trudged back to where everybody was preparing for the day.  "I'm assuming your prayer to an unreliable Traveler has proven unfruitful," Solas said as I plopped back down beside him, shoulders slumped in a defeated manner.

"Shut up.  And if you get pink eye, you're not sleeping in the same tent with me."

-

Cassandra got it in both eyes a day later.  Sera and Blackwall in two.  Dorian three.

"Do you know how  _disgusting_ this is?" the Tevinter complained, shoving his eye in my face.  I reared back, lips curling downward the same time I made a double chin.  

"Yes, yes I do.  And please, stay away from me."

"How do you fix this?  I can't go out in public with a goopy eye!  And why haven't you  _or_ Solas got it yet?  It's just down to the two of you!"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because we keep clean?"

"How  _dare you--"_

"No, don't touch me with your diseased hands!"

"Oh, I'm not going to  _touch_ you, darling, I'm just going to--"

I held back Dorian's nasty, infected mitts by gripping his forearms and steering them into the air.  "You evil Tevinter bastard," I said through gritted teeth.  

"You did this to me," he hissed back.  "I could be in the library, reading to my heart's content, but  _no."_ We staggered sideways, still grappling.  "'Oh, Dorian, I would just  _love_ for you to come,'" he said in a falsetto voice.  "'It'll be fun!  Your eye won't look like  _darkspawn tongue_ at all!"

"You joined the Inquisition!  You knew what you were getting into,  _Dorian Pavus,"_ I seethed.  "It's not my fault nobody around here bothers to wash their hands or use a clean washcloth!"

"How about a little flame to those eyebrows, hm?  Let's see you try to use expression then!"

"I'm going to put rashvine in the the wax you use to remove your chest hair!"

Dorian's hands started heating up, one eye looking extra manic with all of its pinkness.

"Solas!  Solas, my love, help me!" I cried out, craning my head to see if he was running to my aid.

Instead I saw him leaning against a tree, reading a tome.  He was in his I'm Ignoring All of You Mode.

"Your elf can't help you now, Alaran," Dorian crooned.  "If I have to suffer, so do you!"

I flipped him over on the ground, yelled  _"ha!"_ and ran away as Dorian was left swearing profusely.  

-

I awoke to find that Solas and I were facing each other.  His mouth was slightly ajar, body remaining in a casual sleeping position while I had one leg underneath his arm, and the had its knee up against his crotch.  He continued to willingly sleep with me, too.  Man, I loved him.

A hand traced the edge of his smooth jawline, which got a sleepy smile from him.  "Good morning," Solas said, that low, barely awake voice sending my heart pounding and flutters in my tummy.  

"Good morning,  _vhenan,"_ I returned, moving into a more acceptable position and kissing him lightly on the lips.  

Solas opened his eyes to look at me.  Only one actually did what it was directed to do.

My smile slipped, then turned into a horrified expression as Solas took his thumb and forefinger to pry open the other one.  I could  _hear_ the crusty cracks peeling apart.  

"No," I whispered.  "No.  Please, no."

But Solas was infected.  He had pink eye.

"Alaran," he said throatily, the uninfected eye glinting mischievously.  "Don't go."

"Solas--"

He latched onto me and buried his head into my shoulder.  I started thrashing, uncaring if I hurt him or not because he chose to put himself in danger.  "What is wrong, Alaran?" he asked with feigned concern.

I opened my mouth and let out a shrill, piercing scream.  

-

There was slow clapping as I stepped out of the tent and walked stormily down to the stream to wash up.  "You alright, Al?" Varric teased as I passed, only laughing more as I lashed out my hand and shoved his big head sideways.  

In the clear, calm reflection of the slow moving stream, I looked at my eyes.  My two pink, gunky eyes.  

I wanted the world to burn.

 

 

 


	19. Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Alaran first found out Cullen was no longer taking lyrium.

_Pound._

_Pound._

_Pound._

_Pound Pound Pound Pound Pound--_

Cullen Rutherford set his quill down on the desk and squeezed his eyes shut at the same time he put pressure on both temples.  Maker, his head hurt.  No, that wasn't quite accurate; his entire  _body_ was on fire, boiling his stomach and turning his head to ash.  Each rivulet of sweat that ran down his brow and the back of his neck felt like flames so hot it was cold, searing into his flesh.  He couldn't do this.  What had he been thinking?

He stood, the scrape of the chair so loud against his ears he thought it was...

_Kinloch.  The sounds, oh Maker the **sounds.** He was never getting out, he would submit and choose death over the torture--_

"...Cullen?  Cullen Rutherford?  Commander Cullen Rutherford?  You in there?" a voice drifted in.  He looked up from the spot on the floor he had collapsed onto.  Panic mixed into his already disheveled, groggy mind.  Maker's breath, that was the voice of the  _Herald._ She couldn't see him like this.  She would mock him for his weakness, point out just another reason why templars were unreliable and not to be...

A wave of dizzying nausea washed over him.  Cullen groaned softly, arms giving way to the weight they were barely supporting.  

The door creaked open.  She would call on his soldiers, and they would  _see..._

"Oh, shit," Alaran whispered, swiftly closed the door behind her, and hurriedly crouched at Cullen's side.  Through blurry, swimming vision, he saw the outline of her clothes, hair, ears, and the violet eyes that he always had to stand strong in front of when they scrutinized him.

"No, don't..." he moaned as she began turning him over.  Bile rose swiftly in the back of his throat, and in one lurching movement he retched onto the floor.  Alaran, instead of behind disgusted and backing away, stroked his scalp as his stomach expelled what was mostly water and this morning's porridge.  It was already humiliating enough, but in front of the Herald of Andraste...Cullen wouldn't ever be able to look her in her sharp, bright eyes ever again.  

"I..." he rasped, his voice raw and throat rancid.  "Please, just...leave me."

A snort was the first response.  "Are you joking?"  Then there was a pause.  "You're not dying, are you?"

He swallowed, trying to rid some of the taste of stomach acid.  "No."  Though, it felt like it.  And...it was certainly a possibility.

Cullen opened his eyes when there was the sound of clasps being undone.  Weight shifted off his shoulders as his fur-covered mantle was taken away by porcelain-like hands.  Next were his pauldrons.  She fumbled with those, muttering incoherent words under her breath as she relieved him of them.  "What're you doing?" Cullen questioned, trying to get a better look but finding his neck wouldn't support his head enough to lift if off the floor.  

"Getting you undressed so I can put you in bed," Alaran replied evenly.  "You're going to stay there.  Got it?"

"I...what?  No, I have to work," he argued with as much firmness as he could.  

Then Cullen's upper body found itself lifting off the ground, cradled by Alaran's arms.  She bit her lip as she placed a hand on his sweaty forehead.  "You're burning up.  I'm going to go fetch Adan once you're--"

 _"No._ I won't..."  This was becoming more difficult to argue, and Alaran was smart enough to figure out that this wasn't a normal sickness he might have had.

She raised an eyebrow.  "Okay.  Fine.  Guess that means I'm going to take care of you."

...Had Cullen heard that correctly?   _Alaran?_ Taking care of  _him?_ Alaran, who was standoffish to almost anything Cullen said or did.  Alaran, who openly told him that she thought templars were worse than fear demons because of so much panic and chaos and harm they spread.

"Come on, big boy," she grunted lightly as she got him to his feet.  Cullen was mildly surprised at how much strength she contained in one thin, small body.  He had only heard vague stories from his soldiers that witnessed her ability to wield a greatsword many could not; it was becoming more believable.

Alaran helped Cullen settle down onto his mattress.  He closed his eyes and took deep, even breaths to try and stop his migraine from making him feel like his head was going to explode.  Cullen allowed the Dalish woman to take off his cuirass, vambraces, gauntlets, greaves, sabatons, and then finally his boots.  "Crap on a caboodle, Cullen, how do you even  _stand upright_ with all this stuff on?" Alaran huffed as she tossed them with a  _clank_ at the foot of his bed.  "If I pushed you down, would you even be able to get back up?  Are you even allowed to go onto that frozen lake out there?  Or would you just crash right through it?"  Alaran took a breath.  Cullen could barely keep his eyes open long enough to see her expression slide into something akin to concern.  "Sorry.  I tend to hide my worry with lame jokes and sarcastic comments."

"You...you are worried for me?" Cullen repeated weakly.  

"Uh, yeah.  Of course I am.  You're the Commander of the Inquisition."  Alaran gave a small smile.  "Then again, I just worry over everybody I care about."

She  _cared_ for him?

Alaran then stared at him flatly.  "I can see what you're thinking, Rutherford.  Believe it or not, your well-being is something I want to be good condition.  Now lay down.  I'll be back."

"It's not necessary," Cullen tried to persuade as he rested back on his bed.  Alaran ignored him and checked the temperature of his forehead once more before standing.

"Whatever.  Okay, so you have nausea and vomiting and a fever.  You got diarrhea, too?"

Cullen opened and closed his mouth.  "I-I beg your pardon?"

"Diarrhea.  I think you know what it is.  Withdrawal symptoms typically have those.  And from the way you're looking at me, I'm guessing that's a yes."

He was silent for several moments, unable to come up with an understandable question as to  _how_ Alaran knew.  

She folded her arms, continuing to read his face.  "I've suspected for a while, now.  Also, the way Cassandra and Leliana look at you over the war table kind of gave it away."  She smirked for the first time since she came into his cabin.  "Also I overheard you speaking about it with the Seeker when I was on my way to train with the Chargers."  

"Ah," Cullen said softly but wryly.  Alaran's smirk faded and she folded her arms.

"Has it been this bad, before?"

His refusal to respond answered the question nonetheless.  Alaran nodded once, then silently departed.  

Cullen waited, drifting in and out of consciousness, riding the faint waves of continuing stomach cramps and headaches.  Just when he was beginning to think that the Herald wasn't coming back, the door opened again and let in a cold Frostback breeze--which would have been welcomed, had it not been for the sudden switch in body temperature Cullen experienced just moments before.  

He shivered, teeth chattering together as Alaran began setting up things on his nightstand.  "Hold on, just a second," she said, taking a wet rag and a bowl and walking over to the mess he had made.  She cleaned it up then set the bowl back outside, most likely to be taken by a servant to be washed.  Cullen gritted his teeth in the swell of humiliation overcoming any dignity he clung onto.

Alaran pulled up a chair, guiding him to sit up so he could drink something dark and bitter in a mug.  He frowned at it.  "I know, I know," she chuckled, "I hate drinking stuff, too.  But Adan said that this will help with the nausea and diarrhea, so you have to buck up.  Also, how much water have you had to drink?"

-

She sat with Cullen for the rest of the day, evening, and night, promising him that her work could get done another time.  She made him laugh, surprisingly, with awful jokes and stories and just simple, actual conversation.  Alaran Lavellan was not the woman he had first thought her to be.  And with the tender care and sympathy she showed him as his body was wracked with cramps and aches, Cullen had to wonder if she hadn't been severely sick at some point.  

"Ya know, Cullen, you're alright," Alaran smirked as her feet were propped up on the bed.  She was lightly tapping her fingers against a thigh.  "You're not as stuffy as I thought you first were."

"And you are alright, as well," Cullen chuckled, feeling real, actual fatigue tugging on his eyelids.  "I am glad we had the discussions we did."

"Right?  Now you can look at me without squinting your eyes and thinking how awful I am."

"I do believe that was  _you_ doing that."

"Eh, let's not get into details."  Alaran tucked her hair behind a pointed ear.  "You're going to be okay, Cullen?"

"I...I would hope so," he replied, then yawned.  It caused her to yawn in return.  They both sat in silence for some time, listening to the crackle of the flames in the fireplace.  Cullen began to doze, his body finally declaring that it was done for the day and that he had made it through.

He had made it through because of her.  

So when she started to hum, Cullen didn't move a muscle.  He didn't want to ruin it.  Alaran's hum turned into a soft, beautiful song as she quietly gathered everything up and extinguished candles, the faint shuffling of her feet against the floorboards bringing up a sense of memory Cullen doubted he could ever fully remember.  He didn't recognize the song Alaran was singing, but it was...nice.  

It sent Cullen Rutherford off into a dreamless sleep.

 

 

 


	20. Kites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometime after Revelations.

The lively buzz of Skyhold was distant, muted.  To everybody else, it was a wonderful summer day, warm enough to be doing whatever one wished, yet cool enough that it wasn't miserable due to the fairly strong breeze.

But Blackwall didn't want any part of it.  He doubted anybody would want him to join, either.

So he kept to himself, making use of his time by carving a...okay, he didn't exactly know  _what_ he was carving, yet.  Maybe it would just end up as a pile of rubbish, like his life.  

_Here he was, feeling sorry for himself while everybody other than him was actually doing something with their lives._

He should just pack up and go to the Wardens, because even though Alaran didn't look at him like he was a monster, it didn't stop all the others from doing so.  The possibility of him getting back any of the trust he didn't deserve in the first place was slim, and rightfully so.  Maker, how could he even  _look_ them in their eyes after this?  It was--

"Oh, Thomas!  Or Blackwall, whichever one you prefer!" sang a familiar voice.  He turned to see Alaran gliding in, her arms clasped lightly behind her back and hair tousled by the breeze, creating a halo of white around the crown of her head.

Blackwall stood straight--well, as straight as he could.  He wasn't in the mood to be standing with his shoulders thrust back, especially not like Alaran's.  "My lady," he rumbled as he gave a brief bow.  "What can I do for--"

"Does this world have kites?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Ya know, kites?"

He gave a slow shake of his head.  Alaran's mouth made an O and her already bright eyes somehow grew brighter.  "You don't?"  She then craned her head around to look back outside.  "And it's not stormy, either, so we won't have the fear of accidentally inventing usable electricity!"  When Blackwall saw her expression once more, he was momentarily taken aback at just how  _young_ Alaran looked.  Maker's balls, how many years did she have on her?  Twenty?  Twenty-one?  She shouldn't have to carry the weight of the Inquisition on her shoulders...

Her upright, thrown back shoulders.

"Rainierwall," Alaran whispered reverently, slowly approaching him until she was close enough that she could place both of her hands on the sides of his cheeks.  The smell of lavender cut through the scents of horse and hay and wood.  "Let's go fly a kite."

-

Over the next hour and a half, the two of them tried and failed repeatedly in making a so-called kite until Alaran finally figured out how to properly fold the light canvas they were using to cover the wooden crossbeams.  And though Blackwall was stoic and not very talkative in the beginning, her persistent enthusiasm and everlasting patience slowly opened him up.  And as they worked, they talked.  Blackwall knew many things about the young Inquisitor, already: she was in a relationship with a "salty" elf (that was how she put it, not him), she was firm in the belief of second chances, she used to love dried apples but now hated them with a passion, and she was from a different world.  But what Blackwall  _didn't_ know was that Alaran was involved in theater and something called speech and debate, and was nationally ranked in the latter.  And Maker, in a country with more than three hundred million people, that had to count for something.  She was also an equestrian rider, and though she never did exceptionally, she loved it passionately.  Before she was given an elven body, she had thick, light brown hair that was all curls, blue eyes from her father, and a body that was slightly pudgy but "still darn cute."  Alaran learned how to cook from a servant that basically raised her from birth.  Sophia was her name, and she was fired when Alaran was eleven because she tried to go to the police about the abuse Alaran was receiving from her father.  The report was dismissed due to relations her father had with the local enforcement departments.  She never saw Sophia again.  And when she got her sickness, her parents left her to others to take care of, barely visiting her and acting as if she were already dead.  She doubted they even missed her.

"But enough about me," Alaran eventually sighed with a small smile and a knowing gaze.  He had...he had never known that for all of her confidence, surety, and optimism, she had somewhat of a harsh and sad life.  "Could you hand me the--?"

"How did you do it?" Blackwall interrupted.  Her head tilted slightly.

"I couldn't do it by myself, Blackwall.  Though I know what a kite looks like and stuff, I lacked the materials to create it."

"You know what I mean," he rumbled.  Alaran leaned against the work table and folded her arms, studying him with sharp eyes.

"Honestly?  I'm not sure, sometimes.  There were days that were anything but great.  And, seeing as I wasn't exactly religious, there wasn't a god I relied on to get me through the tougher times."  She shrugged her shoulders slowly enough to know that there was still weight on them.  "But...I suppose I just didn't want anybody to ever feel like I've felt, so I made it my duty to treat others in a way I never had been.  That integrated into my personality, then just... _became_ part of my personality."  Alaran then abruptly snorted.  "I only curbed my arrogance on being intelligent and cunning when I met other people just like me at a tournament and saw how they acted.  That was a little harder to overcome, and every now and again I can't stop it from showing."

Blackwall chuckled at the statement, knowing it to be true.  "So it was just like that, huh?"

Her lips pursed momentarily.  "No.  Not just like that.  Because nothing is  _just like that,_ dear Blackwall.  I think a lot of people disregard the journey I've had to make to get to who I am today.  Like, they think it's not fair because it seemed so easy for me to grow, but it really wasn't."  Alaran breathed through her nostrils, mind swirling with a million things she would most likely never say out loud.  "In a world full of change, the least we can do is direct how we want ourselves to change, too."  When her eyes met his once more, Blackwall was once again reminded just how lucky the Inquisition was to have her as their leader.  And, just what great terror she could unleash should she choose to conquer through ruthless, unrelenting means.  

Then she held up their finished kite and the spool of twine attached to it, flashing a grin before it settled back into a smirk.  "Off to the ramparts we go!"

It was his mistake in trying to refuse.  "Alaran, I don't think--"

She opened her mouth and started to...

Started to sing.

And it was  _loud._

_"With tuppence for paper and strings_   
_You can have your own set of wings_   
_With your feet on the ground_   
_You're a bird in a flight_   
_With your fist holding tight_   
_To the string of your kite!"_

Her arm hooked around his and she dragged him off with that blasted unnatural strength of hers, still singing and gathering the attention of everybody present in the courtyard.  To those unaccustomed to the Inquisitor's personality, it would come as a shock and a scandal.  But to those who had seen her painting with Solas in the rotunda, loudly arguing with Dorian over a book, wrestling with the Iron Bull bare-handed, and playing outlandish pranks with Sera, they looked upon the scene with amusement and admiration.  It showed that their Inquisitor was still...people.  

"Maker's balls," Blackwall grunted as Alaran bounded up the stairs to the section of ramparts near Commander Cullen's office and living quarters.  Her hair whipped in the wind, which had multiplied in its intensity with the elevation.  

"Get out of the way!" Alaran called to the guards patrolling the walls with extra solemnity and vigilance upon seeing their Inquisitor come.  They hesitated at her instruction, but she gave them a smile and motioned for them to scoot to the sides.  

She held the kite up, which was already struggling to be free of her grasp.  "Inquisitor!" a new voice called.  Blackwall looked over his shoulder to see Commander Cullen stepping past his door to come and see what the commotion of.  In fact, the entire courtyard had gathered below, craning their heads up and shielding their eyes from the sun to see just what their Herald was up to.  "What are you doing?"

Alaran grinned again and opened her mouth to respond.

But, instead of a response, she began singing again.

_"Ohhhhhh ohhhh ohhh ohhhh!_   
_Let's go fly a kite_   
_Up to the highest height!"_

As she belted out lyrics, voice mixing with the wind and dancing across Skyhold's ground, she broke into a run, raising the kite above her head.  When she had gained enough momentum and a particular gust went their way, Alaran released.  

Blackwall couldn't help but let out a laugh as their construct rose higher and higher into the blue Frostback sky.  There were gasps from below, as well as a substantial amount of cheering.  

He tore his eyes off of the kite and onto the Inquisitor herself.  Alaran had an expression of pure joy and bliss as she watched, lips still forming words to her song that was, unsurprisingly, about flying kites.

_"Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring_   
_Up through the atmosphere_   
_Up where the air is clear_   
_Oh, let's go fly a kite!"_

It took Blackwall a few moments to realize that Alaran was calling his name and beckoning him to her side.  He did as he was asked and came to her side.  "Here!" she shouted over the wind, and shoved the spool of twine into his hands.  The abrupt motion made him fumble, and panic gripped his beating heart for fear that if he dropped it, then their creation would simply float away.  Alaran laughed kindly at his reaction, adjusted his hands to the proper areas, then let him have at it.  

A solid minute had passed before she conversed again.  "Don't go, Blackwall," Alaran said meaningfully as they both looked above.  "I'll miss you, and there won't be anybody to help me with things like this."

An unwanted ache in his throat made his voice crack as he responded.  "Never, my lady."

Tears then welled in his eyes as Alaran rested her head against his shoulder, much like a daughter would do with a father or an uncle.  In Blackwall's case, it was most likely uncle.  Varric was her unofficial father, the whole Inner Circle knew.  Still, the simple gesture held so much sincerity and love he could hardly withhold the waterworks.

If Alaran accepted him, then Thom Rainier could face the world with upright shoulders.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been on a Mary Poppins soundtrack kick, and this happened *shrugs unapologetically* 
> 
> *shrug turns apologetic* now it's time to get back to my other fanfics


	21. Villainy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alaran ain't a hero

Gather around, children, Hallah Lynne has a story for you.  A dark and dastardly tale of how our dear, sweet Alaran was tempted and overcome by the dark side.  There was the threat of Corypheus, of course, but there was also the threat of the elven woman by his side, possessing knowledge and power that all nations feared. 

And why would I let this happen, you ask?

Well, I wouldn’t.  That’s why I’m telling this to you kinky, weird bastards who savor the agony of being emotionally compromised and obsessing about it over Tumblr.  This is an AU (Not to be confused with Arizona University).

Shall we begin?

-

With lungs burning from the acrid air and body shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and exhaustion, the Herald stood—well, staggered was more like it.  They wished their vision hadn’t cleared; if it hadn’t, then they wouldn’t be able to behold the monstrous figure approaching them.  The Elder One.  He was twisted with what looked to be red lyrium, the same that coursed through his dragon’s scale and eyes.

Next to him, small, lean, and undeniably beautiful, was an elven woman.  She was just as terrifying as the one who was intent on destroying the world.  Her violet eyes blazed with cold, inhuman logic.  They examined the Herald down to the very core, searching, weighing, judging.  What looked to be red lyrium tattoos scrawled up her face, arcing up her forehead and trailing down her nose and chin.  It crackled faintly with whatever twisted power that was held within.  White hair flowed freely behind her back, the light of the fire surrounding them and the reflection of the moon casting an array of colors on the strands.

She was clothed in a black coat, a silverite breastplate, black trousers and boots, and gauntlets infused with red lyrium.  On her back was a greatsword that also swirled with sickening red.  It was an intimidating outfit, partially due to its Void-like appearance and partially due to its simplicity.  She didn’t need anything gaudy in order to strike fear; her actions would do that themselves.

But what disturbed the Herald the most was the elf’s _smile._ It was small and faint, and if curved any further to one side it could have been called a smirk.  It was a smile that was supposed to provide comfort and relief, something that many would take joy in seeing.  How could one have that when they wanted the world to be destroyed?

“Ah, there they are,” she stated idly, violet eyes breaking the Herald down brick by brick.  “Should you do the talking, or shall I?  The revelation I’ve been so wanting to give is dancing on my tongue.”

“I will speak,” The Elder One grated.  The elf gave a nod and was silent, moving over to the dragon and taking up _petting_ the thing. 

“Is it my turn?” the elf called hopefully after Corypheus had stated his intentions and the annoying mistake the Herald was.

Corypheus held out a hand for her to rejoin him.  “Alaran has been… _eager…_ to speak to you, _Herald of Andraste,”_ he spoke.  A clawed finger drew itself underneath her chin and tracing up her jawline.  The smile on her mouth grew.

Then her eyes landed back on the Herald.  They sparked with knowledge, twisted in its truth yet undeniably accurate.  “That Mark on your hand was not given to you, no.  Oh, no.  I suppose from the look on your face that you thought about it not being given by Andraste herself, yet…”  Her chuckle was warm and filling.  “Yet you had hoped.”  She took a step forward, then another, and another until she was only a few feet away from the Herald.  They could taste the red lyrium on their tongue, how it clouded their senses and made their bones feel leaden.  “The owner of the Orb thought so proudly and foolishly that Corypheus wouldn’t survive the process of unlocking its power.  Yet he is named after Pride, is he not?  Ah, how fitting.  I’ve truly wondered if it’s the name he’s given himself, or if it was his own and the other was given.”

“What are you talking about?” the Herald managed to ask despite the red lyrium’s effect on them.  The intensity in Alaran’s eyes grew. 

“He hid himself well, I think.  None of you have expected.  Nor would you have expected an elven apostate to be the cause of all this.  Of our success.  Of your ultimate failure.”  She chuckled again, the laughter on her lips inviting and entrancing.  “But alas, you won’t live to confront Solas about it.”

Solas?

No.  I-it couldn’t be…he wasn’t…he had _helped…_

Alaran tutted before returning to Corypheus’ side.  “The look on your face, sweetie, it’s…so very cute.  You should be dumbstruck more often; it suits you.”  She looked back up at the Elder One.  “Okay, I’ve had my fun.  Do what you will.”

When the Herald launched the trebuchet, Corypheus’ visage filled with rage.  Alaran’s, on the other hand, filled with mild surprise and unrelenting intrigue.  Then, like a bone snapping, her small smile suddenly twisted into a smirk. 

That image of her would haunt the Herald’s memory for weeks to come. 

-

The Herald—now the Inquisitor—encountered Alaran again in the middle of the night.  Their eyes flew open when they stirred from their restless sleep to find that their mouth was being covered by a foreign hand.  “Shh, shh, don’t struggle,” she whispered soothingly.  “I will only be a moment.”  For somebody as small as she was, Alaran had enough strength to keep the Inquisitor pinned down.  They groped for their weapon nearby, but found that there was nothing.  She grinned, her teeth seeming to glow a faint red from the lyrium etched into her skin.  It was the first time the Inquisitor had seen her do something other than smile or smirk; it was more terrifying than any demon or Red Templar.  “I won’t be long, mmkay?  I just wanted to say… _good job._ I freaking _hate_ Erimond, so when you showed him it made me all sorts of happy inside.  It really sucks, having to work with the scum of the earth when you’re trying to destroy it.  You’d think you’d attract more prospective people.”  Alaran’s grin faded, her fingernails pressing slowly and painfully into their skin.  “But I don’t like being beaten.  I hate it more than Erimond.  So I’m asking nicely, dear Inquisitor: leave the Grey Wardens alone, let me kill you so that hand of yours won’t be a bother, and we’ll be on our way.  Hm?  Does that sound nice?  Yes?  Good, I’m glad we’re on the same terms.” 

Her hand lifted off of the Inquisitor’s mouth.  They sucked in a lungful of air to scream, but it was once again silenced by her hot mouth, thin and darting tongue lashing in and out of their own seductively.  They tried to force Alaran away, tried to gnash their teeth to get her to release, but even her mouth was stronger than theirs.  With teeth clicking and clashing, she managed to keep their screams to a dull muffle while she reached to her side to draw a sleek dagger.  It glinted in the faint light of red lyrium.  Panic and adrenaline coursed through the Inquisitor.  They were going to die, weren’t they?

The tent flap rustled open.  “Alright, your Inquisitorialness, time to…”  Varric froze momentarily before whipping Bianca off his back and aiming at Alaran.  At the same time, she released her hold on the Inquisitor and twisted to throw her dagger at the dwarf.  But she…paused.  Hesitated.

It gave the Inquisitor time to scream for help.  Alaran hissed and leaped up, dodging Varric’s bolts despite it being almost completely dark.  She barreled into him, the scratching sound of the Western Approach’s sand moving loudly beneath them as they tangled.

The Inquisitor recovered from the effect of her red lyrium and grabbed the weapon Alaran had previously kicked out of their reach. 

“Get off me!” Varric grunted hoarsely, struggling to throw his attacker off of him.

“It’s a shame you’re my favorite,” they heard Alaran mutter back, that smirk in her voice making the Inquisitor’s flesh crawl.  “It would honestly make me sad if I had to kill you.”  She rolled away, the black clothing she wore already partially concealing herself in the darkness. 

A sudden gust of icy wind rushed past the Inquisitor and Varric, shooting straight for Alaran.  _It should freeze her,_ they thought with relief.

But it didn’t.  All that happened was a slight tousle in Alaran’s hair.

She smirked once more, this time training it on Solas.  “So they kept you after all.  I wouldn’t have.  I’d have ripped your throat out for planning what you were.  Or…maybe I would have asked you to join us.  You wish the world to be changed, Corypheus wishes the world to be changed…”

“I would never align myself with such evil,” Solas spat venomously.  Alaran chuckled like he had said a very funny joke, acting as if she wasn’t outnumbered six to one.  They could kill her at any moment, if they wished.

…Or could they?

“Oh, really?”  She turned her violet eyes to the Inquisitor.  “He has told you what his plans were, yes?”

“Yes, and I promised him that—”

They cut off as the dagger in Alaran’s hand was suddenly gone and flying towards them.  A barrier was erected around them moments before it sunk into the hollow of their throat.  She laughed again and dashed off into the night.

“After her!” Hawke roared, blasting a ball of flame at her back.  It hit her, but had no effect. 

“Maferath’s hairy ass…” Varric whispered as they watched the sight.

“We must make chase!” Cassandra shouted fiercely, but was held back by Stroud.

“No!  The Western Approach is dangerous enough as it is; to run after somebody as elusive as her would only mean death for us.”

The Inquisitor could still feel Alaran’s hand on their mouth, tongue rolling against theirs, the taste of corruption making their head spin and stomach churn. 

She was just as much of a threat as Corypheus, as Samson.  With the three of them combined…

It made the Inquisitor scared.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More bad Al to come! It's always...refreshing, shall we say...to write a heroic character as a villain. And Al's red lyrium vallaslin are probably the scariest and coolest thing. Somebody should draw it. Like???? She could easily become a power-hungry antagonist with no emotion whatsoever. It's a frightening and awesome thing to think about.
> 
> Come, join me on Tumblr at www.tumblr.com/blog/i-dropped-the-chief
> 
> Stay lovely!


	22. Fog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Adamant wasn't the first time Alaran helped Bull overcome his fears.
> 
> Takes place pre-Skyhold.

The fog was so thick that day you couldn't see three feet in front of you.  It was so damn thick you wouldn't be able to see an enemy coming until the tip of their blade was touching your nose.  

And it was so thick that The Iron Bull became scared.

Technically,  _scared_ was inaccurate; Bull still knew that there was a job to do, and he wasn't going to let stupid fog impede on his abilities to get it done.  No, it was more like the fog set his nerves on edge, making him see things that weren't there and hearing things in the silence.  And it made him angry that he, the Ben-Hassrath, the leader of the Chargers, and a member of the  _Inquisition,_ got jumpy whenever a little mist rolled in.  

It didn't help that the Herald blended into heavy white blanket covering the ground.  The only thing that stood out were her pair of too-big, too-purple eyes and dark lips.  For being such the savage, ruthless warrior she was, Alaran could step silently when she wanted, only adding to the pressure Bull's jaw was building in order to keep his emotions reined in.  Dammit, why was she wearing a  _gray_ coat today?  What happened to her other one, the one that...?  Oh, right, it had been burned to bits by a rage demon.  Damn.  And it wasn't like he could just casually say, "Hey Boss, could you quit making my brain freak out by not reminding me of the Fog Warriors?  Or appear like the fog itself?  Thanks."  That'd make him look bad.  The Iron Bull did  _not_ look bad.  Even when he did, he looked good.  That's how it was.  That's how it would always be.

"Bull, you don't look so swell," Alaran spoke plainly.  

Or not.

"Fine, Boss," he rumbled in reply.  "Just watching out for anybody stupid enough to ambush us."

"Like the Fog Warriors?"

"Yeah, they--"  He stopped short, forehead wrinkling in annoyance as he realized just what he had accidentally said.  "Hey, wait."

She didn't crack a smirk as she looked to Bull.  "You don't like the fog; I get it.  And you have good reason."

"Boss, look," he said with a cracking smile, "I know you think I'm freaking out, but believe me, I got it.  You don't need to hold my hand like you do with everybody else."

"I'm not going to hold your hand, no," Alaran assured, her voice quiet and small, giving deception to the storm that could be unleashed at any moment.  "But I do have your back."

"In this weather?  It's a nice sentiment, but still doesn't make it any less dangerous.  Let's just stick to the path and try not to get ambushed.  Cassandra would kill us if she had to be stuck with Varric a second longer than she needed to."

"Yeah no I don't think an ambush is really going to happen.  The ambush part, of course," Alaran said back, masking the ruthless danger inside her as her voice continued to casually change.  It was alright; Bull did it all the time with his own.  He was still trying to figure the so-called Herald out.  There was something about her that wasn't right, yet at the same time it still wasn't  _wrong._ Damn funny and sarcastic, but that was there to try and hide whatever scars there were on her soul.  Probably abused, physically and mentally.  Whether by her parents or by others, Bull wasn't sure...at least not right now.  Give it time, and he'd be able to tell much more about her.  "The cool thing about being an elf is that we can hear well.  Better than most."  Hm.  Another example of proper grammar that Alaran used.  Don't get him wrong, Bull respected the Dalish and their will to survive, but anybody without a formal education was bound to make mistakes here and there, one of the most common being mixing up  _good_ and  _well_ in certain sentences.  "Fog does this thing with bending sounds--"

"I know."

"Then you'll also know that it only heightens these little twitch-daggers," Alaran finished.  She pointed to one of her ears to display the tiny, random spasms that were making them move.  "So I'll be aware if anything or anyone is coming our way before they do."

Alaran was trying to comfort him.  It was a nice gesture, but ultimately wouldn't do either of them any good.  Some things just stayed the way they were.  "Sure, Boss," he said to try and get her off his back.  

"Like I can tell people are coming up from behind us," Alaran said in just above a whisper.  The two of them stopped their walking, switching to waiting and listening.  Bull could now make out three figures, each of them seeming to form from the mist itself.  No, six.  There were six.  Shit.  They were in for a tough...

Twelve.  Now there were twelve, and Bull could see their jagged spears with feathers tied to the staff fluttering in the breeze.  The faint smell of the dank jungle floor wafted to his nostrils.  Was there a hint of oil for a trap as well?  There was no end to them, and they were  **in a too-small contingent to take them head-on.  Best thing to do was evade and flank and suffer minimal loss, because there was no way they weren't getting around this without blood being spilled.  Where was Ataash?  He needed to tell the spearmen to get to the front lines.  Second formation, use stealth against stealth then come in and brutalize--**

"Iron Bull!"

Alaran's screams were low and throaty and vicious.  Half her face was covered in blood, pristine white hair soaked red.  The  _clang_ of metal was piercing in the foggy air as the blade of her greatsword and the sword of the bandit she was fighting collided.  

What was he doing?

Another already lay motionless nearby, entrails spilled onto the rocky ground.  Three.  There was just three, and they could take them.  This wasn't Seheron.

_This wasn't Seheron._

As the third bandit's head crushed under the weight and force of his warhammer, Alaran's own sword cleaved into the ribcage of the second, bones shattering and blood spewing onto her outfit.  The bandit cried out once before the shock of the injury sent him tumbling.  She grimly slid her weapon out and plunged the tip of it into the man's neck, ending his misery before he could feel it.  

And then it was done.

Bull saw that the blood on Alaran wasn't her own, thankfully.  She was okay.  

"Boss," he grumbled, anger building in a twisted, ugly knot.  "I don't--"

She took the pommel of her greatsword and rammed it into his gut.  As he staggered, Alaran growled, "You are  _The Iron Bull._ Snap out of it.  There's nothing to be afraid of in this fog because I've got your back."  She lifted her pommel again, ready to strike.  Bull knew what she was doing; his anger soon turned to pride and rage.  He gave a single nod, bracing himself.  

 _Wham._ "Seheron is thosuands of miles away.  How far away is it,  _The Iron Bull?"_

Oh, yeah.  He felt it now.  That boiling in his blood, the kind that drowned any fear in its river of red.  "A thousand miles," he growled loudly.  

 _Wham._ The air threatened to leave his lungs.  "And who isn't afraid of the fog?"

"Me."  It was a snarl on verge of a roar.

 _Wham.  Wham._ "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you!  Who isn't afraid of the fog?"

"The Iron Bull!"

 _Wham._ "WHO?"

"IRON FUCKING BULL!"

Alaran flashed a grin.  Those were rare, and quite a sight to behold if one was fast enough to catch it.  She sheathed her sword and wiped her bloody face with the back of her sleeve, leaving a smear of red on the gray material.  "Ugh," she commented as they both calmed down.  "I'm never letting Dorian pick out a color scheme for me ever again.  Darker colors hide the blood."  Then she took a knee and began cleaning her blade with a rag, wiping off viscera with a neutral expression.  It was strange; when Bull had first met the Herald, he got the vibe that she wasn't comfortable killing, or like she had hardly killed before.  Now, though, Alaran could decapitate a man while still trying to carry a conversation with her companions.  

It was either very badass or very disconcerting.

"Hey Boss," he found himself saying as she flicked a red bit of muscle off the hilt of her greatsword, "how'd you know that would help?"

"I didn't," Alaran readily replied.  She glanced up at him, violet eyes glinting in the haze.  "But I saw you and Krem doing something like it in Haven, and you seemed pretty pumped afterwards.  I just put two and two together."

Nah, that wasn't two and two.  That was excellent observational and inference skills.  

Shit.  Bull had originally assumed that she was smart, yes, but not moreso than most of the others.  After what just happened, though, he could now safely rely on the knowledge that Alaran was intelligent.  Most likely  _highly_ intelligent.  She put up a show, acting like a sarcastic and easy-going elf with little idea of what she was getting herself into.  But she knew full well what ramifications each of her actions would be.  That was dangerous.  Dangerous, challenging, and awesome.  

Bull was going to have a good time writing reports about this one.

Yet there was...another factor.  Alaran showed strong hues of compassion and kindness, a willingness to serve and to help.  Bull had just experienced that firsthand.  It was a tell-tale sign of a leader.  And a damn good one at that.  

Well.  This was going to be interesting.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Iron Bull gets an idea about Alaran and just what kind of person she is and could be.


	23. Awaiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al always joked about getting a job at the Blooming Rose to make ends meet in Sighs and Raised Eyebrows, but what if she had never met Hawke, and as a result never had friends to steer her towards a different path? What would she have to do to survive in a word far more dangerous than her own?
> 
> Better yet, how would it change Hawke's life?

Discretion was a strict policy at the Rose.  For the Champion of Kirkwall, it truly did come in handy.  Nobody would know that he had visited.   _Just this once,_ he chanted to himself as he paid for a room and a woman.   _Just this once.  Oh, Maker, what if I run into Carver here?  What then?  It would be awkward beyond words._

There were plenty of factors that had contributed to Hawke's presence at the brothel, but the biggest--and most painful--one was that he was...he was lonely.  And yes, he was well aware that a whore wouldn't do much to cure that in the long run, but for the night he could lay with a woman in a bed that wasn't his own and occupy a space that didn't make him feel minute.  It was just a job for whoever he would be bedding, but for Hawke it was more.  He knew he was clawing at it all purely out of desperation, but even acknowledging that didn't--couldn't--stop him.  

Nobody would _ever_ know about this occurrence.  Aveline would cause too much of a fuss, Isabela and Varric would never let him hear the end of it, Sebastian would drag him to the Chantry, and Anders would declare that he needed to help the mages, not waste his money with his dick in some random, disease-infested woman.

"Premium service you paid for, and premium service you will get," Madam Lusine said in a somewhat conspiratorial voice as she led him up the stairs and to one of the rooms.  "And just to be clear: you are certain you do not care if you have an elven or human woman?"

Hawke shook his head, unable to even come up with a halfhearted, witty one-liner.  Lusine shrugged nonchalantly.  "Very well."  They stopped at a door, triggering his heart to quicken.  "Here you are, ser.  Room checks will be tomorrow, late morning.  Should you require anything, there is a bell that you can ring within the room that will send up a servant."  Lusine smiled like an innocent snake.  "It has been a pleasure accommodating your needs, Champion."

With that sentence, the madam turned on her heels and left.  Hawke faced the wooden door, took a deep, steady breath, and turned the knob.  

Immediately the pleasant scent of lavender filled his nostrils.  The room was darkened; thick curtains had been drawn to block out the sunlight, though the temperature was cool. Hawke still felt stifled, and it took more than a few moments for him to meet the eyes of the woman who was laid out on the large, ostentatious, four-post bed.  There were even deep red drapes attached to the posts to create an extra-romantic ambiance.  It was all very ridiculous.

Hawke's breath left him when he took in the sight of elven woman.  He could tell that she was Dalish from the light blue tattoos patterning her angular, beautiful face.  At least in origin, that is.  A midnight blue corset with silver lace accents covered her body, pushing her breasts up and bringing curvature to her thin frame. Matching underwear barely concealed her buttocks, which were angled into a seductive position from the way one leg bent over the other one.  White tresses of curled hair spilled onto the silken sheets of the bed, waiting to have fingers run through them.

"Hello, Messere Hawke," she greeted, her voice lyrical and soothing.  Dark, berry-colored lips formed into a soft smirk.  Entrancing, violet eyes gleamed in the dim.

"H-hello," he sputtered dumbly.  Then a forced laugh escaped him.  "I...I'm sorry, I've never done this, before.  I'm afraid I don't know what to do.  Am I to take off my clothes myself?  Are you?  What's the protocol?  Rules?  No, why would there be rules?  You're just supposed to automatically know what to do!"  Hawke cleared his throat loudly.  "Is there water in here?" he panted.  Eyes that were more hazel than gold today widened when he remembered his manners.  "And I don't even know your name!  Maker, what's your name?"

Her laugh was surprisingly kind and understanding.  The elf rose from her place on the bed and walked over to the table where,  _shockingly,_ there was a pitcher of water and two glasses.  As she poured both of them some, she said, "Would you prefer my whore name or my real name?"

"Both?" he prompted uncertainly with a cringe in his shoulders.

"I'm called Lavender, by customers," she responded evenly.  "As you can see from the smell in this room, its become quite the trademark."  She turned back to Hawke, a glass outstretched in a porcelain-complected hand.  He took it with a mumbled thanks and  _chugged._  Lavender politely sipped hers as he did so, flawless throat bobbing up and down as she drank.

When Hawke had rather sloppily tipped the last drop of water into his throat, he coughed once before asking, "And your real name?"

She lowered her glass and tilted her head a fraction.  Hawke could see her briefly debate whether she wanted to divulge such information to a customer.  Before he could rescind the question, however, she said, "Alaran.  My name is Alaran."

He found himself chuckling.  "Now I like that name a lot better than  _Lavender._ No offense to your trade name, of course."

Alaran returned the chuckle.  "Thank you.  May I?"  She held out her hand to take Hawke's glass.  

"Oh--of course.  Here," he said, unable to admire how every single movement Alaran made was practiced enough to seem effortless and elegant.  Even the way her hair swayed with her hips as she walked back to the table was almost surreal.  

"Would you care for some chilled wine?" Alaran questioned, turning her head to the side to look at Hawke from over a bare shoulder.  He blinked, lifting his eyes from her nearly bare butt and meeting her violet eyes.  

"Er, no.  No, I think I'm fine."

"Very well."  She paused and gave a small smile.  "You don't have to linger by the door, you know.  We have the whole day and night to spend with each other.  I suggest making yourself comfortable.  If you don't want to immediately partake in activities that this place is well-known for, we don't have to."

Hawke found himself letting out a breath.  "Thank the Maker.  Not that I don't want to!" he added hastily.  "It's just...wow, I am making a complete jackass of myself right now, aren't I?"

Alaran laughed again as she donned a slate-colored robe hanging nearby.  "To be honest, Messere Hawke, you've been quite refreshing."  She tied a knot in the middle of her stomach to secure the robe and pulled back a curtain, letting daylight pour into the room.  "Please, take a seat," she insisted lightly, gesturing to a chair at the table.  Hawke moved to it, feeling his shoulders relax an inch.  Alaran joined him, pouring more water for each of them as she continued to talk.  "Believe it or not, but most men and women I am paid to please hardly let me get in a greeting before they want their money's worth.  The fact that you're sitting here with me, engaging in a conversation, proves that you aren't the jackass you think yourself to be."

The way Alaran spoke had a somewhat entrancing effect on Hawke, making him briefly wonder if she was using magic on him.  It wasn't the first time somebody at the Blooming Rose possessed such a talent.  What had that woman's name been?  Idunna?  There was also something ridiculous that went along with it, but he doubted he would remember.

The feeling was fleeting, however.  "So," he drawled as he took a better look at the room.  "You sleep here?"

"Oh, no.  This is where I work," Alaran answered.  "The Rose has a place for employees to sleep...if they are proficient enough in their jobs.  It's nothing fancy, but I would choose it over this any day."

Hawke raised a teasing eyebrow.  "Are you this open with your clients?  Or am I a special case?"

Amusingly, Alaran's eyebrow arched as well.  "Most clients don't wish to talk.  So I suppose you technically  _are_ a special case."

"I don't know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult," Hawke laughed, then moved on to another question.  "How long have you worked here?"

"On and off for four years," Alaran replied.  "I tried making ends meet through other ways, but it just wouldn't cut it.  After coming back here for the thousandth time, half-starved and with nothing but dust in my pockets, I just...stayed.  But, in condensed time, I would say that this could be considered my third year."

He gave a nod.  "And what made you leave your clan and come to Kirkwall, of all places?"

Alaran was silent, gazing unblinkingly at the Champion for a few seconds before replying, "I was worse off where I originally came from."

Obviously _that_ wasn't a subject to be touched.  Hawke took that into account and went on, creating a pleasant conversation with Alaran that lasted until the sun turned golden and illuminated the room in its glow.  She had dinner sent up, which was wonderfully seasoned scallops and a salad topped with a sweet-tasting dressing.  Though Hawke had a glass of wine with his meal, Alaran stuck to water with a lemon added into it for flavor.  For dessert they shared a small chocolate cake glazed in white frosting and oozing with liquid chocolate in the middle and a scoop of ice cream.  It was downright divine.

Hawke leaned back in his seat contentedly while Alaran gathered their dishes on the tray to set outside so it could be collected.  "I should come here for their food more often," he joked as she walked back.

"Yes, because we're most renowned for the quality of our meals," Alaran said back with her loose sarcasm.  The longer they had spoken, the more he saw past her polite and polished countenance.  Beyond the facade was a good person who was genuinely interested in what Hawke had to say, instead of just pretending to listen so she could get paid.

Alaran stopped behind Hawke, placing her hands on his shoulders and slowly kneading into them.  He let out a soft moan as she hit a sore spot.  "It's like you're trying to get me into bed or something," Hawke commented as he rested his head back against her frame and closed his eyes.  

"Well I got all dressed up and treated you to a nice dinner," Alaran said, a smile in her low voice.  "I expect you to put out."

"Pressuring me, are you?  I'm starting to feel threatened."  Hawke couldn't help but grin as he spoke.  "It's like you just want me for my body."

Hands released from their grip and a weight settled on his lap.  He lifted his head back up just as a smooth mouth pressed against his.  "You are more than your body, Hawke," Alaran whispered between the agonizingly slow kisses, the taste of chocolate on both of them.  "You are more than the Champion."  A tongue flicked out, grazing Hawke's lips before receding.  "You are more than a mage.  You are more.  If you didn't have any of that, you would still be great."

The kissing stopped.  Noises from the floor below drifted faintly into the room, keeping the place from utter silence.  Hawke's arms gradually tightened around Alaran's waist, drawing her in close--as close as he could get.  His head had somehow buried itself in the crook between her shoulder and neck, smelling the lavender on her skin and the soap in her hair.  

It was only supposed to be a short, simple hug.

Turned out that wasn't the case.

When Hawke didn't let go of Alaran, she went stiff.  For several moments she unsure of how to react to such a gesture.  Then, gently, she put one arm around the top part of his back and bent the other at the elbow so she could run her fingers through his shaggy black head of hair.

Oh, he saw the irony of it all.  It was almost blinding.  "Here I am," Hawke laughed weakly, his voice muffled by Alaran's body, "paying for emotional pleasure over sexual.  How horrible is that?"

"No," Alaran corrected gently, "this doesn't cost anything.  And it's not horrible.  It's...one of the best things that has happened to me in a long time.  You've talked to me--a _whore--_ like I was a real person.  That's what makes you great.  You see people as people, not as objects or things lesser than you.  So..."  She leaned back and placed a kiss on Hawke's forehead.  "Don't ever let that fade."

-

Lute playing, horrible puns, playful kisses, shrieking tickles, and a clothes swap.  That was how the rest of the evening and the beginning of the night was spent.  Alaran was slouched on the bed, wearing Hawke's tunic and hair tied back into a loose bun.  Hawke was shirtless, the fancy corset he had failed in wearing for more than ten seconds without laughing strewn at his side.  Both of them were trying to see who could fit more bread in their mouths.  It was a fierce competition, but he was going to be victorious--

Alaran lifted up the hem of her tunic, flashing high, supple, porcelain breasts.  Hawke stared and forgot to work his mouth, which resulted in a choking fit of coughing.  Bread spewed everywhere over the sheets.  The bread that had been the ticket to the win.

No.

She thrust both fists high into the air, cheeks bulging unhealthily and eyes wide with triumph.  Hawke groaned in defeat and sprawled across the bed, arms opening in a T shape.  "Maker take you, woman."

It took a while for Alaran to chew through her bread, but after she did she grinned, wide and proud.  It was lopsided and less-than-perfect.  That's what made it all the more beautiful.  "Just using my arsenal to win, Hawke."

As he sat up she began brushing off the excess bread off the mattress.  "That's what I call dirty fighting," Hawke pouted, leaning to crawl forward on all fours.  He then flopped down beside Alaran, resting a hand on his chest and sighing woefully.  A large yawn followed.  "Andraste's tits, I didn't realize how tired I was."

Her figure slid down so they were laying side-by-side.  "Hours of shenanigans will do that to ya," Alaran said factually.  She turned her head to the side to look at Garrett.  Something was hiding in her lips and covering secrets in her eyes.  There was pain, etched as clearly as her  _vallaslin,_ but he had a _very_  strong feeling that she would never share it.  

His hand crept to hers and intertwined between her fingers.  A musician's fingers, nimble and strong.  "Garrett," she whispered, cracks riddling his name.  "You can't.  We can't.  I'm..."

"Everything but what this damn place tries to force you to be," he finished resolutely, staring into pools of violet.  "Now, I don't know what will happen when I leave this room tomorrow, but until then...until then I'm going to give you what you deserve, because you are more than worth it."

So, for two sovereigns, the Champion of Kirkwall slept with a whore.  Under the blankets he curled around Alaran, tenderly draping an arm around her stomach while the other was tucked under the pillows her head rested on.  The candles had been extinguished and the curtains drawn shut.  Alaran's breathing soon became steady and slow, finally allowing the exhaustion caused by her life to send her off into a deep, still slumber.  The sound of her playing the lute still rang in Hawke's ears, and it was what lulled him to a sleep of his own.  And when he awoke suddenly from a nightmare, it was her mere presence that saved him from the empty haunting he always felt afterwards.  Sure, she kicked him a few times, but he didn't mind.

Hawke didn't mind at all.

And when he was forced to leave in the morning, he took the image of Alaran smirking and saying to him:

"I'll be waiting."

-

The weekly visits drew out over two, three, four months.  Together, he and Alaran talked, read their favorite books, practiced dancing, and ate very good food.  The kisses grew more meaningful and the gazes lingered more often.  When they parted in the morning, it was as if there was a chunk missing until they were reunited.  

Garrett had fallen in love.

And how could he not?  Alaran was witty, unbelievably intelligent, compassionate, funny, and stunning.  He loved everything, from the way she would flash that dorky grin before trying to hide it, to the way she was ticklish on her stomach.  Her voice, her movements, her laughter...it was perfect.  And though they were both broken in unseen places, they had the just the right pieces the other needed.  

"So, Hawke," Varric drawled casually as the two of them walked back from a meeting with some fancy knob, "I've got more than a couple of people telling me that you've become a regular at the Rose.  Been like that for a while, now.  Care to divulge?  Expound?   _Articulate?"_

Ah, it was abound to happen sometime.  A short explanation had already been prepared.  "There's a woman, there.  She treats me nicely."

Varric's brows rose on cue.  "And that's all you're gonna say about it?  Is it only one woman?  How long have you been seeing her?  Has she given you any diseases that Blondie's had to clear up?"

"Oh, you think you're so funny," Hawke grumbled.  The dwarf peered up at him, reading the Champion like a book.  

He half-laughed, half-groaned.  "No, please don't tell me you've fallen in love with a whore."

"She's not a--" Hawke began immediately before clamping his mouth shut.  It was enough for Varric.  

"You  _are."_ He got a heavy clap on the back.  "Hawke, I think it's time we had the talk."

The bait shouldn't have been taken as quickly as it was.  "The  _talk?"_

"Yes, the talk.  Ya see, there are special ladies at the rose who like to... _indulge_ their clients in a special light, just so they can squeeze extra coin out of them. I hate to break it to you, but chances are you're just being used.  The moment you step out of the building she's pleasuring..."

White hair pulled into a loose bun, face concealed by a large, floppy hat.  A summer, turquoise dress sweeping past her knees, embroidered with white flowers.  A coin purse dangling from a leather string wrapped around her wrist.  A small basket propped against her hip.

Hawke's hand was then on her shoulder, the familiarity of it resonating with him.  She stopped talking with the merchant and turned, violet eyes glinting in the sunlight.  Alaran grinned briefly before it transitioned back into a smirk.  "Well hello there, Messere Hawke," she chimed.  "I didn't expect to see you here."

He flicked the rim of her hat, chuckling.  The day had just become ten thousand times brighter.  "What in the Void is this?"

Alaran frowned playfully at him and adjusted it.  "Shut up.  I quite like it."

"You look beautiful today, by the way," Hawke had to put in.  "I mean, that's how it always is, but..."  

They were interrupted by a nosy, short little man.  "Garrett, introduce me to your lovely friend," Varric smiled, smugness puffing his chest out.  Alaran's eyes lit up as if she knew him, but it disappeared so quickly Hawke brushed it off.  She held out a porcelain hand for him to shake.  So he, of course, bowed and kissed it.

"Alaran."  She spoke her name gracefully, as if she was born into nobility.

"And how are you two and Messere Hawke acquainted?"

"I'm the whore he visits at the Blooming Rose."

Garrett wasn't sure whether to die of humiliation or laughter.  Because he couldn't decide, he wound up frozen with a plastered half-grimace-half-grin on his face.

Varric masked his shock more easily.  "You don't say!  We were just talking about you?"

"Let me guess: you were trying to persuade him that all I want is his coin."

"Yes, yes I was.  Am I correct?"

Alaran raised a ponderous eyebrow at Hawke.  "Should I be the one to tell him, or you?  Wait, never mind; I want to."  She looked back to Varric, unable to help the wry smile twist her berry-colored lips.  "I'm afraid to say that  _M_ _essere_ Hawke and I haven't done the dirty.  Not once."

 _That_ got a reaction.

-

Bodies laced together, the smell of sex heavy in the air, a cool breeze from the opened window in Hawke's room coming in.  It had happened.  After seven months, it had finally happened.  The so-called "Dirty."

Yeah.  He was definitely in love.  And the greatest thing was that Alaran loved him back.  

"Light some lavender incense, beloved," he grinned, speaking lowly into her ear.  That same ear flattened and pressed against the side of her skull.  Alaran withdrew back to stare at him directly in the eyes.  

"If you think that I would  _ever_ let the smell of lavender infuse anywhere except in that damn room, _beloved,_  I'm going to rip your nutsack off."  She said it with a growl, but the expression was smiling.  Alaran had confessed to him some time ago that the scent of lavender was utterly revolting to her because of how much she had to smell it and the acts she was obligated to perform while it hung in the room.  

But that life of hers was over, now.  She would never have to go back.  Because earlier today Hawke had paid Madam Lusine ten sovereigns to pay for Alaran's debt to the Blooming Rose.  She was free.  And even with that freedom, she still wound up in Hawke's arms, in his bed, in his house.

Soon Alaran's arms snaked back around his waist, the naked porcelain leg curled around his hip tightening.  "Garrett," she said, her breath tickling his nose and sending chills down his spine.  "Always come back to me, alright?  No matter how far we may be apart, you will always come back to me."

"Don't worry," he answered, only partially joking.  "You won't be able to get rid of me, even when you're sick of my very being."

"Never."  It was spoken with such resolve Hawke could only stare at Alaran for a while.  How could he be loved by somebody as wonderful as she so wholly?  How could one person create such radiating  _joy_ in his chest?  

Garrett would never be able to compare to the starlight that was Alaran Lavellan.  But he could bask in it, admire it, and love it until the end of his days.

-

Blood soaked into white hair.  Cold arms clutched around a dead child.  Flames burning the soles of wrapped feet.

_"I'm going to Darktown, love," Alaran called as she gathered up a basket filled with food and supplies.  "It feels like there's going to be a cold front coming in; you know how chilly it gets down there."_

_Hawke was reluctant to let her go, but she was adamant.  "Just...be careful," he breathed as he kissed the top of her head, smelling the verbena soaked within the strands._

_"Yes, I know the danger.  But I got my dagger."  Alaran spoke as if the chincy little knife could protect her from all the evils of the world._

_"Should I send Beefcakes with you?"_

_"Garrett.  I'll be fine.  And we can't have two of the ladies in your life away from you, can we?"_

_He watched with a smile as she put on her hat and departed through the front doors, into the rain and to her death._

The world was silent, as silent as the beating in Alaran's chest.  A sword had been driven through her back and into the child's, killing them both.  In one of her hands she clutched a red-streaked dagger.  The dagger that couldn't save her.  

In a stupor, Hawke separated the two corpses so he could hold his most beloved, his world.  Alaran's violet eyes stared peacefully at the sky, void of fear or pain or grief.  Her porcelain skin was gray and damp from the rain.  Berry-colored lips parted slightly, like she was saying something before her life was driven from her body. 

Merrill was weeping, most likely into either Varric's or Isabela's shoulder.  Beefcakes was howling like mourning spirit.  Aveline was saying something to him, but it was muted and indistinct.  Nothing could be heard over the internal screaming inside Hawke's soul.  It consumed him--everything that he could feel was pain and only pain.  

On the outside, however, his lower lip barely quivered.  Because below the pain, below the agony, he was dead.  The only difference between him and Alaran was that his heart somehow managed to still beat.  Blood didn't pump through it, though.

Revenge did.

Fingers dipped against the hole in Alaran's stomach.  Hawke wiped the sticky substance across the bridge of his nose, feeling the blood magic start to take effect.  Though she was immune to magic--as he had discovered a while ago--blood was still blood.

"What are you...?" Sebastian started, but he trailed off into a shocked, terrified silence with the rest as Alaran's dark red life force crawled up his fingers, seeping into the nails and channeling his mana into a surge of power.  It felt so  _wrong,_ but there was nothing stopping Hawke.  Not one of his friends that stood behind him could change his mind on what he was about to do.

The templars could still be heard scourging the city, even with the distance they had gained.  

They didn't know what was coming for them.

Garrett kissed Alaran's forehead, smelling death and verbena.  Then he gently laid her back down to the ground, silently promising that he would come back for her when this was all over.  Alaran had always wanted to fly; perhaps the highest peak on Vimmark would be a good place to scatter her ashes on the wind.  

"Hawke?" Varric asked, uncertainty in his voice.  The mage picked his staff off the ground and stood to face them.  They all saw that there was nothing left in him but murder and rage.  Alaran's blood surged inside him, valor mixing with his vengeance.  As always, he was was stronger with her.  

No.  He was the strongest.  

That night in Kirkwall, the Templar Order burned.  

-

"He is...different than what you described him as," Cassandra said as they made their way to the Western Approach to meet the Champion of Kirkwall and the Warden.  Varric was mildly surprised that she bothered to talk to him at all, but still took the chance to converse.

"What do you mean by that, Seeker?  He's not as tall as you imagined?"

"Well...that, yes.  But in the book, Hawke seemed to be..."  She couldn't find the right words to say what she wanted to and scowled.

Varric finished for her.  "Easy going?  Kind of an asshole, but a funny one that everybody liked?"

"Yes."

He sighed, knowing that everybody was listening in, by now.  Including their illustrious Inquisitor.  But he could at least be honest with the Seeker.  Maker knows he should have been that way in the first place.  "There was...somebody lost in Kirkwall, the night of the Knight-Commander's demise and ultimate transformation into a statue.  Her name was Alaran."  A faint smile crossed Varric's lips as he said her name.  It had been so long since he last uttered it; he had nearly forgotten how easily it rolled off his tongue.  "Al for short.  Hawke met her in the Blooming Rose."

"So the Champion of Kirkwall fell in love with a whore," Bull chuckled.  "Figures."

"Yeah, well, she was one of a kind.  They didn't actually sleep together; poor bastard spent two sovereigns a week just to talk to a Dalish elf.  He probably poured in more money to that place than the templars did.  But, in the end, he paid her debt to Madam Lusine and gave her the freedom she deserved.  And where did Al end up?  In his bed and in our lives.  A typical happy outcome."  The smile faded.  "They were going to get married, live a happy life together..."  He shook his head once.  "If only she had stayed inside when all that shit went down."

"But she didn't," Cassandra said lowly, aware of where the story was going.

"No.  The damn girl made frequent visits to Darktown to give out things like food and blankets and fabric to make clothes.  My best guess is that she was walking back when the templars came upon her.  Maybe they were afraid and frantic.  Maybe the child she was protecting manifested mage powers right then."  Behind him, Dorian let out a soft sound upon hearing the even sadder, braver circumstance.  "Or maybe the templars were just as evil as Meredith.  Whichever one, she ended with a sword run through her's and the kid's stomachs.  We came across them on our way to the Gallows."  Varric paused for a few moments before he said quietly, "Garrett Hawke died with Al, that day.  And he hasn't come back since."

"Where was she buried?" Blackwall asked reverently.

"She wasn't buried.  Hawke had her cremated and took her out the Vimmark mountains.  Said something about her finally getting to fly.  That was the last I saw him in person."  Varric tugged on his gloves out of habit.  "So in short, Seeker: the Champion isn't like he is in the book because of Alaran Lavellan."

"And why did you never mention her in it?" Cassandra followed up.

"I may be a prick, Seeker, but I'm not a heartless maniac."  Varric uttered words he never had to anybody else, and never would after.  "Al was pregnant.  She was going to surprise Hawke.  We had planned a party and everything.  How could I let the world take a shit on her and her life if I put her in the book?"

The subject was never brought up again.

-

As the rift closed and Hawke was sealed off in the Fade, he thought of Alaran.  As the fear demon roared and he was skewered with one of its limbs, he thought of Alaran.  And as blood ran down the corners of his mouth and the Black City hung ominously in the distance, he thought of Alaran.  The sound of her voice rang in Garrett's ears, singing and soaring.  There was a smiling kiss on his cheek and a warmth in his stomach he hadn't felt in years.  

_He was coming back.  He was coming back to her._

And she would be waiting.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a short nsfw post (and also my first nsfw post), but looks like neither of those happened. Now I'm going to lay down, watch Daredevil, and be sad.
> 
> Also, it has always been my headcanon that not only does Al not smile because she had braces on Earth for so long, but because her smile isn't exactly the prettiest. It sure is endearing, though.
> 
> I'm on the what the young kids call Tumblaluhr at www.tumblr.com/blog/i-dropped-the-chief


	24. Villainy 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alaran from Sighs and Raised Eyebrows is the baddie.

Three figures crested the ridge on the hilltop, red lyrium illuminating their personages. The first was disfigured, looming, evil. The second was a man…a man Cullen recognized. “Samson,” he whispered under his breath. What was going on?

“He’s very angry you took his mages,” the strange boy whispered. “And she is very happy to see you again.”

“She?” Josephine inquired tensely.

Cullen’s blood ran cold as he became crushingly aware of who the third person was. White hair whipping in the wind, red lyrium scrawling across her face where pale blue tattoos once were.

“No!” It was Varric who cried out the exclamation, voice ragged and broken. _“Al!”_

“Cullen! Give me a plan! Anything!” the Inquisitor cut in, concerned with the dire situation at hand instead of the fact that one of the loveliest, kindest elves had been turned to evil.

“Haven is no fortress,” he replied after his throat had cleared from the ache inside. “If we are to withstand this monster we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force with everything you can.” He drew his sword to address the Inquisition’s forces. “Mages! You have sanction to engage them! That is Samson! He will not make it easy!” He swallowed the lump in his throat with such force it made his voice sound grating. “And this is Alaran Lavellan! She is relentless until victory is hers! But we are the Inquisition! And we are with the Herald!” A roar of war cries rose. “For your lives! For all of us!”

As he looked upon Alaran, he couldn’t help but think of her flashing grin, her illuminated violet eyes, her bare feet slapping against the ground as she ran off with a pail in her hand, clutching the giant hat atop her head so it wouldn’t fly away.

“She was once filled with love,” spoke the boy softly. “But now it’s twisted, tainted from betrayal and burden left by all those who left her.”

On the outside, Cullen was calm, alert, and staunch against the enemy bearing down upon them.

Inside, though, he was screaming.

-

Hawke and Varric hunkered over mugs of swill, numb to the liveliness of the tavern and the taste of alcohol as it ran down their throats. “I…I can’t believe it,” the Champion muttered for the thousandth time. Varric’s response was the first he had received in return.

“She was there, with Corypheus and Samson. I saw her, Hawke. The red lyrium…it was on her face, just where her tattoos used to be. And what she did to the Inquisitor…” He shook his head, trying to rid the memory of the account, the sight. “That will scar forever.”

“Why? Why did she do it?”

“The Inquisitor told me that she wanted to ‘send her regards.’ For those that she knew who are now in this whole mess.”

“I mean why did she do _it?_ Why is she with Corypheus?”

It was something Varric hoped wouldn’t come up. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to _think_ about it. What had they done—what had he done—to make her feel as if there was nothing better to turn to? “Don’t ask me, Hawke,” he sighed. The weight on his chest was nearly crushing. “Maker, don’t ask me that.”

“I just…we had left her, after Kirkwall.” Hawke’s voice quavered. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, brows furrowing together. “And after what had happened in the Gallows, in Vimmark…I just should have _known._ She was dying and we did nothing!” Ice crackled up the mug Hawke was gripping. The tavern quieted at the Champion’s outburst, but upon seeing tears glistening in his eyes—which were more hazel than gold today—they averted their gazes.

“Shit,” Varric whispered under his breath, taking another hefty drink to numb the ache in his throat. “I’ll have to write some letters. They all deserve to know.”

“How’s the Commander taking it?” Hawke prompted, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“The poor bastard’s barely holding together. You should go talk to him.”

Hawke gave a tight scoff. “The last time we saw each other he was watching my ragged ass hightail it out of Kirkwall. I doubt we’ll be able to have a good cry over what happened to…” He struggled to even get her name out.

“The guy’s off lyrium,” Varric interceded softly. “And I’m sure with this…this fucking revelation, he’s gonna be real tempted to open that box back up again.”

“And why can’t you talk to him?” Hawke questioned, voice muffled by the mug lifted to his lips.

“Because some people just talk better with others, Garrett. And you know how Curly felt about her. Remember how miserable it was watching him pine over her whenever he could? And when he saw what had happened to the Inquisitor…”

“Alright, I get it. I’ll go talk to him. But let me get drunk, first. Really, really drunk.”

-

Dorian had met Alaran in Kirkwall. It was a brief encounter, one that he soon forgot due to its irrelevance to the rest of his life. He remembered a strange young woman with an even stranger backstory, whose wit was sharper than a Dalish slasher and sadness something too deep to heal. Perhaps if he had just been a bit more persuasive, more charming...she may have come with him. It would have gotten her out of Kirkwall and away from those who had obviously left her.

Then again, Dorian supposed, he was just another name among the list that had done the same.

But there was nothing to be done, now. Nothing but drink his wine and organize the books in this Maker forsaken library. He just couldn’t _understand_ how Alaran could turn to such evil. What had made her feel as if there wasn’t a better choice? Her intelligence was something to be revered and feared. Dorian became aware that from the first actual conversation they had. Corypheus was a bad enough threat; how much more danger was the world in now that he had Alaran at his side?

The book in his hand somehow greatly angered him. With a soundless snarl, he hurled it into the rotunda below.

-

_Slam._

The book thrown over the side of the library balcony should have made Solas jump. It should have made him glance irately up at Dorian, the ostentatious Tevinter mage with too much show and too little practicality.

Instead he continued to stare at the blank wall, ready to be painted. He was home, now—or as much as home could be when one was using it as a fulcrum for a rebellion.

So why was the emptiness he felt so completely consuming?

Ah, yes.

Alaran. She was the reason.

Solas’ clasped fists clenched tightly together behind his back, and there was an ache in his jaw from biting down on it. What a waste of talent, of intellect, of _soul._ She had gone back to the Waking World and been destroyed by its cruelty and evil. And Solas _knew_ that her will had been strong enough to resist it. That meant she had let it embrace her with its vile wickedness through her own volition.

The emptiness filled with anger. If only Solas had persuaded her to stay for just a little while longer in the Fade, then he could have retrieved her himself when he awakened. If only the people she spoke of so fondly made sure that she had her head above water, that she wasn’t fading. If only Alaran…

If only what? She had her agency; they all did. It was a simple matter of cause and effect, nothing more.

_“Solas,” Alaran cried dramatically, throwing herself in front of him and smashing the flowers he had been cultivating. “Solas, I seek thine solace!” Her eyes were closed and she groped for a hyacinth to tear out of the ground. Once she found one, she clasped both hands around the stem and placed it between her breasts. “Take me from this wretched place and to the everlasting dawn. Carry me on wings of twilight and to never ending stars.”_

_When Solas remained silent, Alaran cracked a violet eye open to glare at him. “Solas,” she whispered loudly. “Do something. Play along.”_

_With a smile rarely felt on his lips, Solas began to draw the flowers Alaran now lay on top of up around her until she sat in a miniature meadow. She was laughing, now, her entire upper body moving up and down with the discordant, rich rhythm. Lavender grew by her ears, purple and pink daisies intertwined through her white hair, morning glories wound up and down her sleeveless arms, and poppies tickled her bare feet. A countless other number of flowers surrounded Alaran, each bringing life to her figure, her personality._

_“I don’t know if that counts as playing along,” she giggled, both eyes open and looking up at Solas. “But close enough, I guess.” She reached up with the hyacinth between her fingers and tucked it behind his ear, touch lingering before it lightly receded. “Wow,” Alaran gasped, “you look like a fairy prince. So beautiful, very handsome.”_

_He snorted and she laughed again. Stretching her arms up through the flowers, Alaran hummed happily in her throat. “Solas, my solace,” she repeated quietly, the faint smile giving her words new meaning. “Solas, my solace.”_

_The perfect image of Alaran laying in the abundant array of flowers would stay with Solas forever. And when she opened her eyes once more to gaze up at him, it was—_

Crystalline, red lyrium cracked up her _vallaslin._ Standing proudly by Corypheus and Samson, eager to see the destruction of innocent lives. There were no flowers around her, anymore.

Heartbreak was something Solas assumed he was so familiar with it could no longer affect him.

He was wrong.

It was a while before Solas turned to see all the objects in the rotunda chilled and levitating, all due to his tempestuous reaction. Such a thing would not happen again.

Alaran must be finished. Because if Corypheus failed, he was positive Alaran would not. And whatever plans she had in store for the world…

She could not succeed.

-

The Temple of Dumat.

The stink of demons, red lyrium, and corpses festered in the hot night air. It made Cullen’s stomach roil, but not enough so that it would affect him. There was a mission they needed to accomplish, a mission that would define their victory over Corypheus. He could not afford to fail.

 _They_ could not afford to fail.

Red Templars—the beasts—were ploughed through by both Inquisition forces and the Inner Circle. The Inquisitor and he lead the siege, trying desperately to reach Samson in time. The further they battled their way in, however, the more Cullen got the sinking feeling that Corypheus’ right hand had known they were coming.

The battalion was left stationed outside when they entered the temple itself. Flames curled around their path, soured by the smell of blood spilled from those corrupted by red lyrium. They had been so _close!_

“This place is already half destroyed,” the Inquisitor stated grimly.

“Samson must have ordered his Templars to sack his headquarters so we couldn’t,” Cullen growled back.

“Sorry, Curly. Someone tipped off Samson you were coming,” Varric condoled. Ever since Alaran’s alliance had been brought to light, the dwarf looked years older. Though he maintained the ease of speech and laughter, it wasn’t real. The light had gone out in him.

“I think you’re right,” he said after taking a breath. The heat of the burning temple was making sweat roll down his forehead and neck in irritating rivulets. “Still, we’ve dealt Samson a blow.”

Further into the shrine they crept, avoiding flame and lyrium alike until they came to the temple doors themselves. The lyrium and heat were beginning to make them all sick, but who knows that they would miss if they left a single place unsearched.

It disgusted and broke Cullen to see the Templar Order bannisters hanging from the ancient walls. _You could have been one of them,_ he repeated to himself for the thousandth time.

They rounded a particularly ominous formation of red lyrium that sang a song so sickening it was little wonder why the stuff drove men and women mad. Cullen was just about to turn around and give the signal to move out when there was a flash of white hair and violet eyes.

He stumbled and stopped, groping numbly for the hilt of his longsword. Varric made a pained noise and Dorian outright swore.

Alaran paid them no mind. She was tending to the Tranquil next to her, porcelain hands softly stroking the side of his cheek while the other pulled him in close to her side.

“Hello, Inquisitor,” the Tranquil spoke vacantly as his own hand clutched at his stomach.

“Yes,” Alaran whispered without tearing her gaze from him. “Hello, Inquisitor.” The red lyrium engraved into her face crackled and glowed, but her eyes were still the same color, uncorrupted and untainted.

For a few moments, nobody knew what to do except stand there dumbly. It was the Inquisitor who reacted first. “What are you doing here?” they stated coldly, murder tingeing their voice.

“Can I not sit with a friend so they won’t be alone in passing?” Alaran questioned back, voice as soft and lyrical as it was all those years ago. There was something missing it, however. Something the commander couldn't place.

Cullen crouched when his knees would no longer support him, uncaring if he was to die by her hands. The greatsword she used as her primary weapon lay a few feet away, sheathed and lifeless. “Maddox,” he breathed, forcing himself to look upon the dying mage. “Samson’s Tranquil.”

“Send for healers,” Alaran said in a ferocious, quiet tone. “Please.”

“That would be a waste, Commander Lavellan,” Maddox said, eerily empty. “You are aware that I drank my entire supply of blightcap essence. It won’t be long now.”

“You fool,” Alaran cursed. “You downright fool. They wouldn’t have hurt you. All they wanted was to ask you questions.”

“Yes. That is what I could not allow.” Maddox turned his gaze up to the group. “I destroyed the camp with fire. We all agreed it was best. Our deaths ensured Samson had time to escape.”

“You threw your lives away? For _Samson?_ Why?” The questioned Cullen asked strained his throat. This was all wrong. It was wrong, and there was nothing he could do to fix it.

Maddox’s reply was as steady as a summer breeze. “Samson saved me even before he needed me. He gave me purpose again. He gave us purpose again.” The Tranquil’s eyes fluttered, and Alaran gripped him close. Her fingers dug lightly into the side of his cheek, causing his skin to go white. “I…wanted to help…”

“Maddox, Maddox no,” Alaran pleaded, fervently shaking him to awaken even as he slipped away. “Don’t leave me alone, you fucker! Don’t…don’t…”

Three moments passed where Alaran stared wide-eyed at the dead body now beside her, mouth half-formed into a cry.

When those same eyes slid back over to Cullen and those behind him, his blood ran cold.

Alaran lunged for her sword the same time he unsheathed his. Dorian blasted a sheet of ice at her, but it did nothing. “Alaran!” Varric yelled in attempt to get her attention and stop her from trying to kill them all.

He was ignored. Within another moment Alaran had her greatsword brandished in front of her, white hair loose and framing her face. The glow of the lyrium twisted her snarl into an even more terrifying one. She let a war cry ring out and dove forward. He barely had time to block it. The force of her blade made his hands sting as metal collided together.

“You left me in the Gallows!” Alaran screeched. Her words were a physical blow on him and he faltered. It gave her time to find a weak spot, but she didn’t. “YOU LEFT ME THERE TO DIE! TO BE RAPED AND TORTURED AND EXPERIMENTED ON!”

She pointed a sharp finger back at Maddox. “He was the one who rescued me! A Tranquil has more humanity than _you!”_ Her eyes snapped to Varric, transitioning into sorrow and anger. “And _you…_ All of you left me. You left me in Kirkwall! It as if I was some charity case that you dropped when things got difficult! Who was it that tried to warn you about the Chantry? And who ignored me? WHO IGNORED ME, JUST LIKE I WAS ALWAYS IGNORED?” Her laugh was grating and mirthless, the very essence of what just was aching inside her. “Well I’m not ignored now, am I?”

“Al,” Varric broke in, cracks in his voice riddling the single syllable. “Al—”

 _"That's not my name,"_ she hissed. “But none of you ever thought to ask who I really was! Who I really am!” Alaran lifted up her greatsword once more, eyes lightning surrounded by sickness. “And none of you are going to live long enough to find out. What a pity. What a shame. What a shame the bridesmaid is a _whore.”_ At the last word Alaran attacked. Cullen wouldn’t have time to raise his shield. The last thing he would see before he died was her face.

It wasn’t the worst thing to die to.

“Alaran, no!” Varric shouted before putting a bolt in her shoulder and another in her thigh. She screamed and faltered as blood poured from her wounds. Just as the Inquisitor prepared to attack, Alaran held up her weapon and began to back away. Revenge was in her entire _being._ Revenge and a hurt so deep it made her entire existence flicker.

“Bury him,” Alaran commanded, gesturing to Maddox. “Because he’s my Champion.”

“Corypheus intends to destroy the world!” Cullen exclaimed as she retreated in a desperate attempt to…to…

“Your point is?” she shot back, voice shaking from pain and exertion. “There are those in your circle who believe in the same ideals. But I do not side with Corypheus because I believe in his goal.” Her face darkened into something atrocious. “I side with him because when he fails, I will rise from the ashes and _give this world what it deserves.”_

_-_

Solas had wandered from the group. He couldn’t help but do so when he was once more in the Temple of Mythal. Such history, such beauty…

Lost.

He bowed his head as he stood in front of one of her statues, remembering.

“You remind me of that one song,” a sudden, familiar voice said out of nowhere. Solas stiffened but did not turn. _“I am the One,”_ Alaran sang distantly, voice faint and ringing, _“Who can recount what we’ve lost. I am the One, who will live on.”_

“Alaran,” he breathed, heart picking up to a rate faster than what could be considered healthy. “You should have stayed with me in the Fade, _lethallin.”_

“You would have left me anyways,” she sighed, voice nearing. He still didn’t turn to face her.

“Why are you here?” Solas questioned calmly. “Samson has fled to the Well. You should be with him.”

“And why are you here?” Alaran questioned back. “The Inquisition is solving those dumb puzzles that a fifth-grader could do. Some test they are. Ah, I see. Remembering the glory days, hm?” He felt her presence beside him the tempest composed in a single body and the sickening song of the Blighted lyrium marring her flesh. “You know, I met Mythal once. Well, Flemeth. She was a bitch. Time has corrupted her.”

“Corruption?” Solas uttered bitterly. “You wish to speak to me of corruption, Alaran?”

“What, you think this red lyrium on my face is actually affecting me? You forget that I’m not of this world. This is just for show. Scares a lot of people. Protection, corrupted. Just like Mythal is. How does it feel, Solas, to know that you are the only one left in this world? That even your ally, your friend, is no longer who she is supposed to be.”

He refused to react. Alaran hummed in her throat, and he knew she was smiling. “Solas, my solace. I think you and I both know that you’re going to be the one to kill me. But until then, good luck. I heard you found the notes I left about how Samson’s armor works. He should go berserk when it’s destroyed.”

“You left the notes?”

“Yeah. He left Maddox. Call it petty revenge on my part. But try to show mercy on him; lord knows the world never has.”  She hummed once more. “Well, I guess I should get going. Cory won’t be happy when he finds out I’m off roaming on my own and not killing you guys.”

Solas nearly turned his head to look at her. “You were sent to kill us?”

“Yeah. Thing is, I’m too curious about the results of all of you living. Also I like hearing Corypheus roar around. How ironic is it that he worships the God of Silence, huh? I don’t think Dumat will ever hear his prayers. And if he does, he’s not bound to talk. Because, you know, _sssilence.”_

She then sighed. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again. But I suppose you should know that you were my solace, once upon a dream. A dream and only a dream.”

When he finally lifted his head up to look at Alaran, she was gone.

-

Varric narrowly dodged the sweeping tail of the lyrium dragon. Exhaustion riddled his muscles and made them tremble. How long was this damn battle going to last? Sooner or later one of them was going to get themselves killed. And they weren’t much good dead—

The dragon spun and locked eyes with Varric as it swiped away an oncoming blow from Iron Bull. _Oh, shit,_ he mouthed as it reared its head back and shot a charge of red lyrium infused electricity.

Damn.

He was the going to be the dead one.

A force barreled him out of the way and was struck with the blast. Varric rolled back up to his knees to see who had saved him.

A white-haired, black-clad figure lay on the ground, groaning and squirming as she recovered from the hit. Varric froze, the ongoing fight fading to a distant buzz.

Alaran grimaced as she propped herself up. Her eyes moved down to the singed, smoking clothing on her body, then up to Varric. “You alright?” she asked bluntly as she placed a hand on her stomach. When it came away glistening dark red, she swore. “One of those fucking rocks,” Alaran grumbled as she stood back on her feet. Varric instinctively aimed his crossbow at her as she took a step near him. With a perfected eye roll, Alaran said, “I just saved your damn life. Don’t be pointing that thing at me.” Without waiting for a response, she cast her gaze at the everybody was failing at defeating. “It’s like watching a bunch of nugs try to take on a phoenix. Or a dragon. Whatever.” She lifted both hands behind her head to grab the hilt of her greatsword.

“Al, what are you doing?” Varric questioned, sickness and excitement rising in him. She smirked; it wasn’t the same smirk he knew all those years ago. This one was without humor, without joy, without _her._

“Well, if you’re all dead then _I_ would have to defeat Corypheus myself. And that would damage my reputation ever so greatly.” Alaran held up her sword and moved into a stance he had seen Fenris take up a thousand times. “Ugh, this is so not what I had planned. If I fucking die, Varric, I’m going to come back to life and kill all of you!”

Her war cry rang throughout the battlefield, getting the attention of the dragon. The Inner Circle froze where they were as they watched her dodge two blasts of lyrium. She blocked a blow from one of its claws, but it was so strong it snapped her greatsword in half. Alaran screamed in rage. The dragon craned its neck around to snap its jaws around her waist, but before it could do so she launched herself into the maw and drove what was left of her weapon into the roof of its mouth.

The dragon’s own roaring intermixed with Alaran’s screams. When it managed to shake her free she went catapulting into the air and landed at a twisted angle on the ground. But the job had been done.

“NO!” Corypheus bellowed as he staggered to his feet to witness what had just happened. Alaran remained still, and Varric could see blood soaking into her snowy hair.

As the rest of the group charged for the final assault, Varric found himself at her side, pulling her into his lap. She was coming to, but there was a large gash on the side of her head pumping crimson. “Shit on a stick,” she breathed, putting a hand to it. The red lyrium on her face was making Varric woozy. Or maybe that was due to his own body calling it quits. “Freaking let me go, Varric, I’m fine.”

“Here,” he said, pulling out a spare roll of bandages. Alaran swiped it out of his hand and sat up to wind the absorbing fabric around her head.

“You should be with the rest,” she said as she glanced up at the crashes of war going on a flight above them.

“Ah, they’ll win without me. Did you see Corypheus? He looked half-dead already.” A pause. “No thanks to you.”

“His plans interfered with mine. It had to be done.”

Another pause. “Then why did you save me?”

She stilled for a moment before continuing to wrap her head. “I shouldn’t have. Consider it a mistake.”

Varric hid his grieving smile. “Sure thing, Al.”

A cheerless, bitter chuckle escaped the hollow of her throat. “If only things could have turned out differently, eh, Varric?” Alaran tipped her head up to the dark, discolored sky, violet eyes searching for something unseen and unfound. “If only.”

If only.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if regular villain Al wasn't bad enough.
> 
> I'd make this into it's own story, but I don't have the time, patience, or heart to do so.
> 
> Tell me what you think about it! And stay lovely <3


	25. Alistair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That one AU in "Sighs and Raised Eyebrows" where Alistair is a drunk in the Hanged Man and Al dies, because writing

It was the first actual night I had spent in the Hanged Man did I see him. Drunk, haggard, and bereft of all hope. 

"What the fuck," I muttered disbelievingly under my breath. It couldn't...it couldn't be, could it? No. Alistair Theirin was a Warden, a King, an essential part of Ferelden's victory over the Blight itself. He wasn't...he wasn't some despondent alcoholic that was curled up in the corner of the seediest tavern in Kirkwall. 

"Don't mind him, Al," Varric suggested as he dealt out cards for a game of Wicked Grace. I had been looking forward to knowing how the game actually worked, just so I could kick all of their asses at it. But now...now all of the surroundings were bleached of color, and the sounds of Hanged Man were muted. "He sometimes gets a little weepy, but most of the time he's a nice drunk."

"Sometimes I think I recognize him from somewhere," Isabela commented as she took a drink out of her mug. "But that happens to me a lot, so I've learned to ignore it. He was nice in bed, though. A true prince. Maybe what he says about himself isn't as big of a lie as we all think it to be."

"You guys," I swallowed, struggling to find the right words, "you guys honestly don't know who he is?"

"Should we?" Hawke grunted absently. He was already furrowing his brows at the cards in his hands. "I know we visit the Hanged Man a lot, Alaran, but it's not  _home."_ He then nudged Varric. "Well, not for most of us."

"Hey, careful who you're insulting," Varric said with mock-hurt. "Our new friend here now calls this place her home, too. It's..."

I didn't hear the rest of the conversation, for my feet had already carried me over to where Alistair was sitting. He was mumbling something into his mug, eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. Hell, he was a mess. Nothing like the young man I had fallen in love with while playing  _Origins._ Nothing like the warrior who had an eyebrow raise so perfect I just had to learn how to do it myself.

"Alistair?" I mumbled, edging near.

"Hn?" he grunted, not bothering to lift his head to look at me. "Whadda want?"

My heart fell to the floor. "Oh," I whispered, "oh, no."

I felt eyes on me from the table I had just left. Everybody was most likely wondering what I would even be doing with somebody as drunk as he. _Why_ I was bothering at all. But I would not turn my back on Alistair. Not like those who he once called his friends did.

"Heyy," Alistair slurred as I gently grabbed his mug and pulled it away from him. "Unless you're refilling it up free of charge, I'd like to have it back, thank you very much."

"No more for tonight," I said quietly as I moved over to help him to his feet. He laughed, low and drunk, in the back of his throat.

"Is this where you and me go off and..." the rest was a slew of indiscernible words I didn't bother to translate. I put one of his massive arms over my shoulder and laced an arm around his waist. The height difference was ridiculous, but I made it work. I had to.

"Alaran?" Hawke questioned over the noise of the crowd. I only gave him an apologetic look and started to guide Alistair up the stairs. It proved to be too difficult for him to handle, so with my newfound strength no human or elf should naturally have, I used the grip I already had to sweep his legs out from under former Warden and carried him like one would do for a giggling bride.

Alistair  _was_ giggling, though. "It's like...being lifted by a child," he said through his snorts. 

"I'm sure it is," I replied as I hauled a two hundred pound man up the stairs without feeling an inch of strain on my muscles. What else could I do with such strength? Kick a door down? Break skulls between my thighs? The possibilities were endless.

"Where're we goin'?"

"Please tell me you have a room here," I sighed as I walked down the hallway. Alistair giggled again. 

"Nope."

"Then it looks like you can have my bed, tonight."

"Oh? And will I be sharing it with you, l...lady lovely? I'm a prince, ya know. The P-prince of Ferelden, and...in bed I'm a prince too."

"No, it'll just be you," I replied evenly, trying to keep my heart from shattering. 

"Aw. You sound...like Morrigan."

I managed to open the door to my room. It was small and seedy, just like the rest of the Hanged Man, but not completely dreadful. I dropped Alistair unceremoniously on the bed. He made an  _oof_ sound and held his most likely spinning head. I went over lit a few candles to bring some light to the room. I was still somewhat disturbed by the fact that I could see in the dark, so to make myself feel better I pretended that I couldn't. Once I had done that, I poured a small cup of water and brought it over to Alistair. He wasn't looking as well as he had a few moments ago. "Uh," he croaked, "something's coming."

While holding the cup in one hand, I grabbed a bucket (they were everywhere in the Hanged Man) and held it out to the side of the bed. Alistair leaned over and promptly vomited. It was short and quick, and once he was done he groaned and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. "Sorry," he muttered.

"It's alright. The smell of puke has imbued itself within this tavern's walls, already, so I'm pretty nose-blind to it," I said, handing him the cup of water and moving back to the pitcher to pour some into the bucket. After swishing the mess around a bit, I tossed it down the dark hole in the privy closet and came back out. Alistair was taking slow, practiced sips of his drink while he propped himself up with an elbow. 

Running fingers through my hair and breathing a short sigh, I sat down on the chair that counted as the only other piece of furniture in my room. 

"Thank you," I heard Alistair mumbled as he placed the cup on the ground and looked to me. His eyes became lucid and his lips pulled into a frown. "Why're you crying?"

I hastily and roughly wiped away the small tears that were rolling down my cheeks. Why  _was_ I crying? I didn't cry. Crying was for everybody else. Not me. Never me. 

"I'm not," I answered stupidly. "Now go the fuck to sleep."

He let it go and laid on my bed, sloppily kicking off his shoes. They landed with a  _thunk-thunk_ on the floor. "Right. Fine. As you command. Just don't watch me while I sleep. It's creepy.  _Creepy,_ you hear?"'

"I won't," I smiled faintly. "I promise."

Within a matter of moments Alistair was asleep. I buried my head in my hands and took a few deep, steadying breaths. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.  _This wasn't how it was supposed to be._

Yet it was. 

At some point got up to blow the candles out. After that I I fell asleep on the chair, then slithered onto the floor and curled up there. I tried not to think about what circumstance the wonderful, hilarious,  _nice_ man was now in. He deserved better. Because this wasn't a game; this was real life, harsh and unforgiving. And it had beaten Alistair Theirin into the ground.

Would it do the same to me?

-

When I awoke the next morning, I was wrapped up underneath the blankets on my bed. They smelt like booze and sweat. 

My mind slowly recollected all that had happened last night, then crashed on me all in one moment. I jolted upright, eyes wildly searching for the other body that had been in my room last night. There was nobody. Just me.

I untangled my legs and tried my best to get the worst of the rats out of my hair. It was semi-successful, so after that I threw on a different tunic--one without small stains of vomit left over on them from last night's incident--and headed out the door. Nobody was supposed to be up this early at the Hanged Man besides the cook, and they served only patrons who were here (Varric Tethras). Had Alistair left? Where to?

It was as if I thought I automatically knew how to help him. Like I could solve every problem in his life because of reasons. I was such a jack-off. How could I possibly do such a thing when  _I_ didn't even know why the hell I was here in the first place? What was the point of me being here? 

The thoughts that consumed me as I hustled down the hallway were so distracting that I nearly crushed into the very man I sought after. "Whoa," he exclaimed, holding me back by my shoulders. "I'm assuming you were going to chase me down and bid a teary farewell, yes?" There were dark circles under his eyes and his clothes were rumpled, but otherwise looked fine. He spoke as though he wasn't heavily drunk the night before. I had to give him credit for his quick recovery. Maybe the Grey Warden stuff helped speed the sobering process faster.

"Definitely," I said, easing into a smirk. Alistair cleared his throat and dropped his arms from my shoulders.

"You know," he admitted, "I've never been very good at handling witty women."

"Handling? So you got close enough to grab them? Pervert."

Alistair groaned and scrubbed his face. "That's not...ugh. Never mind. Off the topic."

I crossed my arms and took a loose stance. "So? Why were you coming back to my room?"

"To see if you were awake so I could...so I could thank you." Pink spots blossomed on his cheeks. "It's been a long time since anybody's ever treated me like you have. I-I ordered a breakfast, downstairs. I was wondering if you wanted to eat with me? I'd like to get to know the woman whose bed I slept in last night."

"I'd be delighted."

-

Alistair watched as the younger Hawke spilled ale on Alaran's tunic. Irritation briefly flashed across her face before she chuckled and shook her head. After waving her guilty assailant off nonchalantly, his friend stood up from her chair and shook off the extra droplets of ale that had gotten on her bare skin. She weaved through the crowd, catching Alistair's gaze as she did so. A porcelain hand shot up to wave at him. He held his mug up in reply, calling, "Don't wander off too far!" 

Alaran grimaced apologetically and pointed to an ear, gesturing that she couldn't hear what he was saying over the residents of the Hanged Man. He shook his head and grinned before taking a sip of his drink. She was...different. As if from another world. She reminded him of Brosca, who was a man so patient and kind it could kill.

It was that same kindness that led Alistair to here. 

Completely by chance, he caught a glimpse of two men who had tried assaulting her earlier sneak outside, intentions obvious. Earlier, before Hawke and Fenris stepped in to defend Alaran, Alistair was already sliding the dagger he hid within his boot out, ready to attack. It wouldn't be the first time somebody was killed in the Hanged Man. He doubted a couple more would make a difference in the tavern's reputation.

Alistair stood, trying to get to the door. His heart was racing, and something in the back of his mind told him that what was about to happen outside  _wouldn't be good._ He tried getting the attention of her friends, but they were too consumed by their own conversations. With a snarl, he began pushing his way past bodies in an attempt to reach the exit. When he was about halfway to the door, the band began playing a lively tune. The crowd cheered, and within moments the floor was packed with people who thought they could dance. 

"Out of my way," he commanded, using a voice so ferocious people looked at him--looked at Alistair the Drunk--in shock and fear. They parted at a pace still too slow for home, so he gritted his teeth and barreled through, knocking some off their feet in the process.

As soon as the warm night air hit him, Alistair looked to the side and saw three figures fighting in the darkness. One was unmistakably Alaran, with the way her eyes reflected in the dim moonlight. As he raced towards them, dagger drawn, she wrenched a knife from one of her attackers and stabbed him in the chest.  _"No!"_ he cried aloud, witnessing how the motion made her back vulnerable to the other. In a brutal fashion, he yanked her head towards him and drew his own weapon across her throat. A narrow line of blood whisked from the side of her throat as the knife drew away, spraying the air with blackness. There was a short gasp from Alaran, nothing more, before she dropped limply to the ground.

With a roar only darkspawn had heard escape him, Alistair drove his dagger into the base of the man's skull. He felt a satisfying  _crunch._ The body went limp, void of life. It was thoughtlessly strewn aside. 

"Maker no," Alistair croaked as he hurried to crouch down next to Alaran. He placed a hand on her neck and tried to stop the hot pump of blood from leaving the place where it belonged.

His eyes had adjusted enough that he could see the elf's bloodied face. Her skin looked silver underneath the crescent moon, and from the way she was gulping he knew...he  _knew..._

Yet Alistair still continued to deny it. 

Trembling fingers wrapped around his wrist with barely enough strength to squeeze. "I...I came for you," Alaran spoke as blood seeped out the corners of her mouth. Her  _smiling_ mouth. The same one that offered encouragement, advice, sarcasm, hope.

Starlight collected in the tears that rolled from the corners of her eyes. "Don't," Alistair breathed shakily. "Don't. Please,  _don't."_  He lifted his head and, despite knowing that nobody would answer, desperately shouted, "Help! Somebody help! Please!"

Alaran's free hand lifted and placed itself on the side of Alistair's face. It was warm and wet with unbound life. "You can't...go back. There's only...forward from now on." The gulping noises became more labored and her body quaked. "I was here...for you. That was my...my purpose."

"What are you talking about, Alaran?" Alistair desperately pleaded as tears formed a layer on his eyes.

He was ignored. "My name...my name is Annabelle. And _I was in Thedas._ I was in Thedas...for you." 

"Dammit, Alaran? _What are you talking about?"_

She only continued to smile, even after the light left her eyes and plunged the world into complete and utter darkness. Her hand dropped, leaving blood soaked into his skin, his soul.

Alistair pulled her close, a soft sob wracking through his body. The one friend he had...gone. Gone because of spilled ale. Gone because of being alone. 

Gone.

When the others came out to see what was taking Alaran so long, Alistair was thrown from her. He felt his head hit the wall of the tavern, he felt a blade pressed threateningly against his stomach, he felt words batter against him as they demanded to know what had happened. But all Alistair could  _feel_ was Alaran's bloody hand on his face.

He sunk to the ground and buried his head in his lap. Why,  _why_ was he cursed with so much loss? Alaran shouldn't have come to him that night, she shouldn't have shed tears over him, she shouldn't have been kind.

But that would have made no difference, Alistair realized. Alaran would have still died. Befriending him, however, made it so she wasn't alone in her final moments. Nobody wanted that, not even the steel-willed, resolute elf he had come to know.

_There's only forward from now on._

Of course Alaran had to say something like that before she went.

Maker take him, but Alistair had to listen to her words. To preserve who she was, he had to. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alistair was actually going to be a drunk at the Hanged Man in S&RE, then I realized I'm not a soulless human being and actually cares about what happens to him. Also, Warden Brosca would never in a million years let something like that occur.
> 
> Sorry 'bout it.


	26. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An event in Al's life between Kirkwall and Inquisition

I awoke with a crick in my neck and a growling stomach. Bubs was next to me, drowning out the snores of ten other people in the small room with his own. I sleepily patted his side as my eyes adjusted to the dim light that crept in from the small, slanted, grime-covered window. It would have been nice to sleep in a bit more, but I knew I wouldn't  _really_ be able to fall back asleep. Not when there were people who needed my attention. Already I was beginning to make a list of all that I needed to get started on.  _Clean the cots, take stock of the bandages, make sure potions are fresh, do laundry at some point, get stew prepared by midday, visit those who couldn't make it to the clinic._

With a soft groan I untangled my legs from the blanket and sat up. A few groggy blinks revealed the sleeping quarters I had been sharing with an elven family for the past month. Lysa and Kev had three children--Bryce, Tellan, and Phillipa. Then there was their niece and nephew, Clarice and Nicolas. Lysa's sister and her husband died from the plague that swept through the slums last year, so they took them in and raised them as their own. Kev's younger brother, Laurent, had lost his arm in a fishing accident and needed help being taken care of. And Sulan, Lysa's cousin, had taken up residence with her husband, Garon, because their part of the slums burned down under "mysterious circumstances." She was also pregnant with twins, from what I could tell. Another four months or so and the small living quarters would become even smaller. 

Another item was added to my list.  _Make sure repairs are being made. Push and/or bribe people around if need be._

I grabbed my small pack that doubled as a pillow and stood up, tip-toeing around other slumbering bodies and making my way into the teensy restroom. It had no windows, so I was forced to rely on my eyesight to see in the dark. I undressed and rolled my nightshirt, used a wash rag to sponge off a bit, combed and pinned my hair up, and brushed my teeth. When I felt slightly cleaner, I donned a simple tunic that cut off at my shoulders and bared the wiry, defined muscles on my arms. Next I fished out my cleanest pair of leggings and shimmied into them, then secured the soles of my feet with footwraps. I looked sort-of grungy, but I wore it well. 

Before leaving my pack and greatsword tucked under the same floorboard that I slept on top of, I cinched on a worn leather belt that had my dagger strapped to it. The chevaliers didn't like seeing elves prowling around with visible weapons, but as long as I stayed in the slums I'd be fine. Well...hopefully. I could never guess what a new day would bring. 

I prodded Bubs with a foot. He grunted, huffed, and cracked an eye open to stare up at me. I raised an eyebrow. "Really?" I asked softly and sarcastically. Bubberston yawned widely, brandishing his toothy maw, and got up. With the jerk of my head we made our way out of the room, into the narrow hall and down the even narrower stairs, and out into the street. The slums were still quiet as the two of us walked through them; by the faint pastel shades of the sky, it was probably four-thirty or five in the morning. Most didn't wake up until around six or seven, and shops didn't open before eight or nine. 

The exception was me, of course. I had a clinic to run and things to do. 

It had become a consensus among the elves to leave my place alone. The good ones did it because they knew I could help them and make the slums a bit of a better place. The bad ones did it because I would run a knife through their throat otherwise. I mean, I didn't just wear shirts like this because  _it was warm._

I unlocked the door to the clinic and entered, breathing in the smell of musty wood, poultices, and stale blood. Then I set to work, humming as I prepared for the day. Bubs took up residence in the corner and watched me with two droopy eyes. His nub wagged when my humming turned into soft singing, then into regular warbling. My dog was my biggest fan, basically, and I pandered to him endlessly. He was enjoying my rendition of Coldplay's  _Paradise_ when there was a frantic knock on the clinic door. I set aside the sheets I was folding and hurriedly moved to open it. 

"Come in, come in," I beckoned upon seeing two elven boys supporting each other. They were both dressed in rags, and one didn't even have a shirt. Because of that I could see his bruised stomach and busted ribs. The other had one eye swollen shut, a blackened face, and blood caked around his nose and mouth. Though tear tracks had streaked down their dirty cheeks, neither were crying now. 

I led them to a readied cot. "Alright, what happened?" I questioned as I grabbed an apron from the cupboard. They were both silent and stoic. The smaller one with the abdominal wounds averted his gaze, while the other fixed a dark brown eye on me. Both my brows rose.

"Oh, you wanna play that game? It happens a lot here." I moved back over to them, placing bandages, poultices, and other tools down on the small table next to the cot. Next I pulled up a stool and sat down on it. "It's alright," I continued to speak as I started to clean the younger's injuries. His lip quivered for a moment, but otherwise kept his silence. "I know it can be tough for two brothers on their own. You don't want to say anything because you think you'll get in trouble. If not trouble, then trying to be taken care of. Nobody should take care of you, because nobody's your family except for yourselves." I began to apply a strong-smelling poultice. "But you're going to be dead in the street if you don't interact with anybody. And with all the shit that's happening, things aren't going to get easier." Uprisings tended to gather unwanted attention. 

More silence. It wasn't until I was taking care of the elder brother that he spoke. "Chevalier Ayer," he muttered as I wrapped a bandage around his lice-infested head to cover the hurt eye. "We were trying to sneak into High Quarter to dig around their trash. He caught us before we could. This happened."

My lips hardened into a thin line. "I know him. This is some of the less severe work I've seen him to do us."

Another item was added to my list. 

After the boys were taken care of--and sent with bundles of food--I got back to work. The flow of people became steadier, and my "apprentices" came to help me tend to others. Kyla was a master when it came to alchemy, and Sashan had just enough magic in him to speed up healing processes and decrease infections. They were wonderful, and would handle the clinic well when it was time to take my leave. 

_And I even got my laundry taken care of._

I ended up having Kyla take my place when making rounds to the chronically ill patients who couldn't live at the clinic. She was unsure, at first, but had been with me on multiple ones already. I assured her that she knew what she was doing, gave her a peck on the cheek, and somewhat pushed her out the door. The stew was prepared by midday, and would be ready come evening. It'd be a nice treat for those who needed a hot meal. I made a mental note to thank Varric in the next letter I sent him; he was the one who got crates of food smuggled to my vicinity. Man, I missed him. A lot. All of them, actually. 

 _I doubt they miss you that much,_ the pessimistic, dark voice whispered in the back of my mind. 

Nah.

Three hours after the sun had set and those who hadn't had a warm meal in months finally got some, I closed up the clinic and headed back to my temporary residence. The children greeted me readily, bringing a smile to my face. Laurent had taken a special liking to Bubberston, and the two sat together as we unwound for the night. Garon held Sulan in his arms and gently rocked his pregnant wife back and forth as the family listened to a story I shared with them. It was about a dashing Champion who did good for Kirkwall because he felt it was right, and his companions who staunchly stood beside him. I got quite a few laughs during the tale--it was what I had been aiming for. There were always too many gaunt and grim faces in slums and alienages. 

The children fell asleep first. Sulan and Garon came after, and Laurent shortly followed. Lysa, Kev and I spoke a little longer, but eventually they too laid down on their shared bedroll and became still.

I leaned down on my pack and stared into the dark, arms folded loosely against my sternum. They rose and fell with each even breath I took. As I did so, my big toes twitched as I alternated between odd and even counting numbers. When I reached the thirty minute mark, I silently sat up and looked around me. Everybody seemed to be sound asleep. Laurent and Sulan even began their snoring cycle. 

Time to move.

Quietly, I got onto my knees and lifted up my bedroll. The floorboard's creaking was too loud for my liking when I pulled it back, so I swiftly grabbed my greatsword and pushed everything shut again. Nobody stirred. 

My shins popped as I stood, causing me to wince from the noise. Bubs was waiting for me by the door, ready to begin our late-night side quest. I was almost to him when there was a sudden shift on one of the bedrolls. I paused, slowly turned my head, and saw Phillipa staring at me with large blue eyes. A single finger lifted to my lips. Her gaze flitted down to my greatsword, to Bubs, and back to me. She gave a nod and blew me a kiss with one of her dainty hands. I smiled at her, waved with my free hand, and exited as silently as I could.

There was something...exhilarating...about stalking through the slums in the dead of night. I learned a thing or two about the finer points of "prowling" from Fenris.  _He_ would have been with me right now, if it were possible. 

I slightly grimaced as I was reminded of the ache in my chest. I wanted to go back to Kirkwall. Varric was even there, now. But because he was there, he begged that I stay out of the city. It was too dangerous, and if the templars recognized me then I would most likely be hanged. The only reason he hadn't been was because of his ties to the Merchant's Guild and Kirkwall's reconstruction efforts. I didn't like the notion of being told what to do for my own safety, but I trusted him enough to know what he was talking about. 

So instead I was here, headed for the outskirts of the slums, on the hunt for Chevalier Ayer. He was supposed to be with another chevalier, but because of the crock of shit stirring in the capitol, many of them had been redistricted to other places. It gave him the perfect opportunity to do whatever he pleased, and nobody would see him do it. It was yet another countless example of the abuse of power here, and the grossly overwhelming oppression that took place. Elves  _here_ were the majority of the city's residents, yet they lived in squalor while the few elite sat their asses on feathered pillows and called them scum as they married young girls to fifty-year-old men and ran the country further into debt. 

Perhaps one day I could fix things. 

I found an alleyway that was in the area Ayer walked. With a calm command, I sent Bubs to lay behind some damaged crates piled up a ways down. That way he could hide from any immediate gazes that were drawn my way. I myself tucked my greatsword against the wall and cobbly ground before laying on top of it to conceal its presence. My body took on a limp position, and I threw an arm out for good effect. 

Then I lay there and waited, emitting whimpers that bounced off the structures and occasionally shifting my legs. The set-up could have attracted those that I wasn't baiting for, but if they planned on taking advantage of me...well, then they deserved death just as much as the chevalier. 

Being a vigilante wasn't often in my agenda; it put my clinics and the people I cared for too much at risk, especially since I was as an elf. But sometimes, just sometimes, I recognized what needed to be done and did it. Chevalier Ayer hadn't just beaten those two boys; he attacked, wrongfully imprisoned, raped, and murdered those who lived in the elven slums. Nobody could stop him, because if his body was found murdered in the streets, then the guard would retaliate. 

Unless his body wasn't found in the slums.

Footsteps and a jaunty humming made me turn my head up. "P-please,  _messere,"_ I cried out in a feigned Orlesian accent, "I-I just need to get..." Horror encompassed my face as I gazed upon the finely crafted, feather-plumed mask. 

Chevalier Ayer tilted his head. "What's wrong, love? Did somebody hurt you?"

I pushed myself further against the wall, cowering. "N-no, sir, everything i-is fine."

"Oh, I doubt that's true. Would you lie to a chevalier? Hm?" He knelt down and grabbed my chin. My head was craned to an uncomfortable angle. "Don't worry. I will take care of you."

He was so distracted with whatever disgusting thoughts were running through his head that he didn't notice me grabbing the hilt of my sword. In the space of one second my terrified, injured facade melted away. Ayer didn't like what he saw, for his shielded eyes widened and he reared back. Not fast enough, though. With my other hand I lashed out and gripped his damned mask. A snarl tore through my throat, and I  _unleashed_ the brutal warrior inside of me. My grip on the chevalier tightened, and he cried out as he felt the thin, gilded metal crumple under the pressure. 

I used the momentum of Ayer reeling from me to propel myself to my feet. With another jerk from the chevalier, his mask tore free. I threw it to the ground, where it hollowly skidded and spun. 

The honorable chevalier was a man with a nicely sculpted mustache, pale blue eyes, and a slightly crooked nose. 

My fist made his nose even more crooked. 

Ayer stumbled back, cursing and shouting in pain and shock. I brought my greatsword into both hands and watched as he wiped away the blood with a gloved hand and hissed, "You little knife-eared  _bitch!"_

His slurs didn't change the fact that he moved into Spear-Fisher. My smirk was sharp and dangerous; the thrill of a fight made everything seem a thousand times clearer. 

"You know what I appreciate about killing?" I remarked as my feet slid into a new position. "The dead can't say a single  _fucking word."_

Three sets of parries echoed through the alleyway, then a loud grunt as Ayer's feet were swept out from under him. His slim, ornamental sword used to run through elves was no match for my plain, heavy, strong greatsword. Still, he held up his own weapon as mine came crashing down on it. 

The sound of metal snapping into shards was a satisfying one. The sword slowed the speed of my weapon, but didn't halt the assault entirely. There was a  _crunch_ and the slight resistance a body has whenever a foreign object is being driven into their body. 

Ayer choked, then turned his pale blue eyes away from me to stare at the blade sunken into his upper abdomen. A wheeze rattled from his chest.

I ripped my greatsword free. Bubs came out from his hiding place and came to my side. With the tip of my sword touching the ground, the two of us towered menacingly over Chevalier Ayer. "Look into my eyes," I commanded levelly. "Look into them, and know that when your twisted soul leaves your body, the Maker will not take you lovingly into his arms. Andraste will not protect you from the justice that will rain down upon your head. May the Void engulf you for an eternity."

Blood pooled in the corners of his mouth, and when he smiled his teeth were slick with it. "Y-you will burn," he spat, forcing the last ounces of his life into the words. "All of...you dirty...worthless...elves will burn."

"What does that mean?" I snapped harshly, crouching down and picking Ayer up by his silk collar. "What does that mean?"

He gurgled a laugh before going limp. Some semblance of mirth still echoed on his cracking lips.

Disgusted, I threw him to the ground and used the chevalier's arm to wipe away the blood on my sword. Then I popped my back and collar bone for good measure. What were his last words supposed to entail? Maybe it was just a lady curse before death; many hated the fact that they were killed by an elf more than the "being killed" itself. 

Or maybe...

My head turned sharply to the inner slum area. Bubba sniffed the air and growled as he shifted his feet nervously.

I smelled the same thing he had a moment later. Smoke. Wood burning.

Then I was flying through the streets with Bubs, leaving the chevalier to rot. The plan had been to dump Ayer in one of the canals at High Quarter, but now I couldn't care less. The rats would probably eat his face off to the point that it was beyond recognition, anyways. 

What mattered was the amber glow I saw in the distance as I booked my way through alleys and narrow, puddle-ridden streets. No. Things were bad, but they weren't...

Then there were the screams. The sounds rose into the night air alongside the smoke. They were what people made when they were being burned alive, or losing all that they loved to the flames.

The massacre was already in full-swing when Bubs and I arrived. Buildings were consumed by fire--and with people still in them. When some spotted me, all flocked. 

"What should we do?"

"My parents are still in there!"

"The fire keeps spreading!"

"Nobody has seen our  _hahren!"_

Instructions poured from my mouth, but I was in panic mode as much as everybody else. It was a struggle not to ignore the frightened and hysterical and run to where I had been staying. Were the children alright? Had everybody gotten out? Were they injured? Worse?

A nearby scream pierced the haze that muffled senses. One of the buildings right next to me had caught flame--and not everybody had been evacuated. 

I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth. What I knew I was about to do wouldn't be good on my body.

After commanding Bubs to stay put, I rushed into the building. Everybody on the bottom floor had gotten out; it was those on the higher levels that were in trouble. 

I could feel the soles of my feet burning as the wood beneath me heated. Still, I rushed up the smoky stairs and kicked down doors, shouting for people to get out as fast as they could. The right wing of the building was being affected the worst. So, of course, that was where I had to go. 

Even if I didn't make it back out. 

After that, the number of times that I went into burning buildings became countless; the smoke had turned my mind and memory to haze. I only came to when I was staring up at a night sky and groaning at the searing pain my feet. My own injured sounds were lost among the wails of despair and hopelessness. It would haunt me forever.

Embers still smoldered nearby. Just embers. The slums had been burned down. Their home, their life. Even the  _vhenadahl_ that provided shade for the center square was nothing more than a charred, twisted carapace of a time long lost. 

I sat up, looked around, and failed to stave off the crashing loss that I felt down to the tips of my fingers. Tears pricked my eyes, but I held them back. I couldn't cry. Not just yet. 

Perhaps if I hadn't gone...

Chevalier Ayer could have waited until...

I could have saved more lives. 

It came, later, that three of the seven people I had carried out of burning buildings died. One of them was a little girl no more than six. I still didn't cry.

When a sleeping potion had been plugged into my mouth and poured down my throat, I didn't wake up again until early sunrise. The news of Lysa and Kev's deaths came bluntly. They were in the building that one of the fires had been started, after all. Phillipa, Bryce, Clarice, Nicolas--also dead. Sulan perished from smoke inhalation, along with her unborn twins. Garon didn't let go of her body until a day later, when she was pried from his arms. He pitched himself into a harbor with a rock strapped to his ankles a week after. 

That left Laurent and Tellan. A four-year-old boy and a thirty-year-old, one-armed man that had to take care of each other in order to survive. There used to be ten. Now there were two. Just like how there used to be an upwards of nine thousand elves in the slums. The fire left little more than three thousand. 

Including me. Alaran Lavellan, tearless and hollow.

I couldn't walk for two weeks. My feet never completely healed; the burning wood I had stepped on so repeatedly left them without the grooves and swirls found on fingerprints. Sickness swept through the slums, and I was faced with the task of redirecting my small but stable network of medical supply shipments to the area. 

All the while, the empire continued to run smoothly. We received no sympathy, no aid. We were on our own. 

I stayed for four more months, until I was chased out by chevaliers seeking retribution for the death of Ayer. Sashan and Kyla, who had both lived through the ordeal, would take over in my place and keep me informed as best they could. 

It was an empty feeling, leaving the slums--or what was left of them. I never saw the two little boys from the day in the clinic, again. I never saw a lot of people again, come to think of it. I was more scarred than I would ever admit out loud. I was an elf; Hardship was part of my identity. 

That still didn't make it right.

Weeping just wouldn't come. What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I grieve for those lost?

As I departed the city, I looked back at the High Quarter. The Winter Palace rested peacefully at the center, immune to the civil war that erupted in Orlais. Empress Celene was somewhere in one of its countless chambers. I doubted she even remembered burning the slums for the sake of saving face. 

But I would remember. Each day I walked on printless feet, each time I saw a mask hiding a face, I would remember.

And one day, just one day, I would make sure she would pay. 

Perhaps after I was rewarded with justice, I could let a tear spill for those that I cared for.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! First chapter up since being in France! Hope you guys enjoyed my full-on Bioware experience.


	27. Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Super short Al/Sera drabble

Berry Lips.

Lightnin’ Eyes.

Smirk Face.

Bizzle Bee.

Flower Fart.

Wrestle Bug.

“You know, it’s not fair that you called dibs on being the one in this relationship to come up with all the cool nicknames,” Ally grumbled as she sat cross-legged on the floor of Sera’s room. She was currently focused on trying to tame her wily bed-head in the full-length mirror propped up a few feet away.

“Life’s not fair, love, thought you knew that,” Sera grinned. She rolled up from her spot on the windowsill-bed and hooked the side of Ally’s head to draw her in. When her silky-smooth, ivory-fair skin was near enough to Sera’s lips, she leaned down and gave Ally a smooch and a smooch and a flick of the tongue and a sloppy lick.

“Blegh, you’re gross,” Alaran groaned, but there was a throaty chuckle that made Sera’s skin prickle and woke up the bees nesting in her rib cage. “And I gotta get going, babe. The Inquisition is already fraying at the seams without me.”

“You’re like one magical knitter,” Sera giggled. “You even got the stabby part down.”

“Damn right I do,” she murmured jokingly, then reached around with a hand to twine it through Sera’s straw blonde hair. It produced a hum in Ally’s throat and made Sera want to kiss the bob of her neck.

Well, there was nothing stopping her, yeah?

 _“Hamph!”_ She swooped down nibbled on Ally’s neck, feeling blood pumping against her lips and the structure of her windpipe between her teeth.

Ally gurgled in surprise, making Sera laugh and accidentally clamp down harder. “Ow!” her girl exclaimed. “Freak, dude, you’re going to kill me!”

In one move, Alaran put the take-down on Sera and yanked her off the bed. If anybody knew anything, it was that she was strong as fock and could even take Iron Bull down if she really set her mind to it.

But she knew her limits with Sera when it came to wrestling. Bruises were always left over, ‘course, but they were fun bruises. Love bruises. The kind that made people jealous and flushed.

Laughter ricocheted off the walls of the room as Ally pinned Sera to the floor and viciously began to tickle her. The laughter turned to shrieks and curses as Honey Tongue jabbed and shanked and kneed her poor body. It was all jingles and jangles, creaks and cracks as elfy bodies wrangled.

They were the focking best at tussling.

Ally won, ‘course. She always did. The girl liked winning. Liked bein’ good at stuff. But she wasn’t ashamed of bein’ the bad stuff either. Like dancing? Horrible. Shitty.

And amazing.

She was all swings and taps and thrusts and exaggerated expressions on the dance floor. No coordination whatsoever. But that was okay.

It was all okay. More than that. Way more than that.

Ally leaned down and rubbed the tip of her nose against Sera’s. “You got that thinking look in those starry eyes.” She moved her sweet-tasting berry lips to her ear. “What whispers waltz in your wonderings?”

Sera smiled as her soul was lit on fire, fueled by Ally’s words, Ally’s body on top of hers, Ally’s fingers as they traced the outline of her frame. “Whispers of you that pool in my stomach and become a roar.”

That was another thing about Ally. She made Sera all poetic and shite. Who focking knew? Everybody had always thought that she was just a focking inbred, uneducated city elf, blended into the world of Nothingness. But not Cookie Kiss.

Alaran made her feel like Something. Unique. Way she looked at her, spoke to her.

Kissed her, like what she was doing now.

It was good, yeah. It was good.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Cause I just couldn't get it out of my head until I wrote it down.


	28. Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Al holiday fluff.

She didn’t _want_ a real Christmas tree, she said. She didn’t _want_ a surprise, she said. But of course, she wanted both. Otherwise she wouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place.

“Will this even fit into your apartment?” Anders questioned dryly as they got out of Hawke’s pickup and walked around to the back. Garrett put on his gloves and adjusted his cap before popping the tail of the truck open. He grinned widely as he saw the glow of the light from their townhouse behind drawn curtains. She was inside, waiting for him to get back so they could begin setting up Christmas decorations.

Excitement was building up inside Hawke’s chest. Anders saw it and snorted. “Yeah, yeah, you have a perfect relationship. Don’t make me sick because of it.”

“’Tis the season, Anders!” Hawke exclaimed as he hopped up into the bed of the truck to grab the middle of the pine tree. With a push, he began sliding it out. Anders stood on the ground to help prop it up. He didn’t exactly _need_ his friends’ assistance; the tree wasn’t overtly tall nor wide, but he didn’t like doing anything alone if he could help it. “Have a little spirit!” He gave the tree another push. “Have you decided on what to get Laurel for Christmas?”

“She wants a new scarf, so I’ll probably get her one.”

Hawke couldn’t help but laugh. “A _scarf?_ Anders—my dear, sweet Anders. You can’t get your lady love something she can buy on a Tuesday afternoon in October!”

“Oh, really? And what are you getting Alaran?” Anders shot back. “A pair of fuzzy socks?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. And a dinosaur onesie. And a nose whistle I found at a toy shop a while back—”

“Why were you in a toy shop in the first place?”

Hawke pushed the last of the pine tree out and hopped back onto the crunchy, snow-covered ground. “Not important,” he retorted as he took the tree from Anders’ grasp. “Oh! And I got her these little chocolates that you can only get from this gas station in the next town over. As well as this travel-sized insult book you can just carry around with you wherever you go—”

“Okay, alright, I got it, you got Alaran everything that could make her happy,” Anders sighed, a puff of steam billowing past his lips to exaggerate his mock-annoyance. His friend dug into their coat pocket and pulled out his keys. He pressed the button to unlock his car, which was parked on the other side of the street. “Can I safely assume that you’ve got it from here?”

Hawke gripped the pine with one arm and held a thumbs-up. “Yup! Thanks, Anders.”

The mage held up a hand behind him as he walked to his vehicle. Hawke turned and faced the door of Alaran’s and his townhouse. He took a deep, freezing breath, and began to walk forward, lugging the tree alongside him. He turned the knob and cracked the door open, then pushed his face through so it was smooshing his cheeks. The house smelt _good—_ Alaran was probably cooking something. Hawke’s assumptions were confirmed a second later when he saw the backside of his favorite girl as she stood over something that was simmering on the stove. Christmas music was already playing in the background, and she swayed her hips to the slow beats. “Babe!” Hawke called as he alternated bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come here!”

“Hold on,” Alaran called back as she glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t want the gravy to burn—”

“Just come here!”

She tossed back her head and exaggeratedly sighed, but it only made Hawke grin even wider. Alaran spun around, giving him a surreptitiously raised eyebrow. She was wearing her glasses tonight, making her look even more delicious. “What did you do?” she asked as she pushed her wire-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of her nose. Alaran made her way from the kitchen to the edge of the living room, where she folded her arms and smirked knowingly.

“Something awesome,” Hawked grinned, then swung the door fully open. It let in a blast of cold air that hit the warmth of their house, but if Alaran felt it she didn’t say anything. Hawke tried to stomp snow off his boots as best he could before walking in even though snow got everywhere anyways. Snow and pine needles, to be specific.

Alaran laughed loudly and spun on her heels as she saw him pull the Christmas tree through the doorway. “I _know_ you said that you didn’t exactly want one, but we _both_ knew that you did. You just didn’t want to say anything.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Alaran breathed as she made her way to him. “We have that fake one in storage that Aveline gave to us, and I’ll be vacuuming every day, and it might die because you know how bad I am with taking care of plants—”

“We can put a fake Christmas tree up some other year,” Hawke cut in kindly, feeling his chest heat up with warmth at the notion of there being more Christmases with Alaran in the future. “But this is _our_ first Christmas together; let’s make it special. And if it fails, then it’s a special failure that I’ll love.”

Alaran grinned—really grinned. Not smiled or smirked or laughed. It was lopsided and showed her dimples. She closed the space between them to wrap her arms around Hawke’s shoulders and gave him a warm, happy kiss. “Thank you,” she whispered, her breath tickling his lips. “And your face is really cold.”

“Hm, I wonder why?” Hawke asked as he made a face. Alaran blew a raspberry on his cheek and let go so she could close the door behind them.

“Right after I finish making dinner, we can—” She snapped violet eyes back over to the kitchen. _“Shit._ The gravy!”

-

The gravy tasted good to Garrett, of course, but Alaran thought it didn’t have the usual _oomph_ it was supposed to. It topped a pork roast that fell apart in his mouth and mashed potatoes with little un-smooshed chunks still in it—just how he liked it. Alaran had been on an asparagus kick lately, so they had that as a side. And they tasted alright with gravy dousing it. They ate together at the counter, washed the dishes afterwards, opened a couple cans of Mountain Dew, turned the volume up on the Christmas music, and got to work.

Hawke put Alaran up on his shoulders so she, in turn, could put a small golden star atop their Christmas tree. It stood next to the window so it could spread cheer and glad tidings whenever anybody looked at it.  They decorated it with a twine of multi-colored lights, tinsel, and with the few ornaments they had. After that, they lined the walls with more lights and figurines. It wasn’t much; money wasn’t something they could freely spend all the time, but it was something beautiful.

The last thing they did was hang a wreath on their front door. Next Christmas Hawke would put something out on their small front lawn. Reindeer, maybe? Or better yet, put a Santa Claus up on their roof? Alaran would love that.

“It looks perfect,” she breathed with an unhidden grin as they regarded their festive living room. “It’s better than I could have ever imagined.”

Hawke put an arm around her lean shoulders, grinning himself. “Yeah, it is. I love it. I love you.”

Alaran craned her neck to look up at him, violet eyes brimming with joy and tenderness. “I love you too.”

He kissed her soft lips for a few moments before laughing several octaves lower than his usual voice and crouched down to wrap both arms right underneath her butt. Alaran was as light as a feather—but could still pack a punch—as he lifted her off her feet. She put her hands on both sides of his face and lightly tugged at his beard. “You’re scruffy,” Alaran chuckled.

“And you’re beautiful,” Hawke said back. He nuzzled his face between her breasts and hummed happily. Alaran smelled like lavender and pine. Warmth radiated throughout her body and the sweater she was wearing was soft against Hawke’s skin. “You’re absolutely beautiful.”

He moved to the couch and flopped down on his back so Alaran was still resting on top of him. As she pulled a blanket to cover them, Garrett grabbed the remote to put on a Christmas movie that they could watch in the warm ambiance of the lights they had strung up. One of his arms draped over her back while the other hand rested comfortably on her butt. Alaran fell asleep not even halfway in.

Hawke smiled, kissed the top of her forehead, and continued to watch the movie.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: had I not been so invested in Alaran's and Solas' relationship, I would have put these two goofballs together.


	29. Umbrellas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because the last Alaran and Alistair fic I wrote was, like, really sad

Why, _why_ was there always so much rain here?

_Oh, you’ll love Kirkwall! It’s so warm!_

_The beaches are outstanding!_

_Be sure to pack plenty of sunscreen! And shorts!_

Alistair heard a countless number of people say that to him back in Ferelden. And guess what? He believed them. Maker, he should have known better. What had he done to deserve this?

Even though he had been living here for the past month—and for the majority of the month it rained—he still hadn’t invested in an umbrella. Oh, Alistair knew he was being stupid and stubborn, but umbrellas were expensive! It was as if every shopkeeper knew Alistair wasn’t from around these parts and amped up the price the second he stepped into a store.

Frowning, he tugged at his soaked hood even more in some fruitless attempt to protect himself from the downpour. The stupid metro wasn’t showing up fast enough. Alistair just wanted to get home, change into dry clothes, and mindlessly watch television. Though his new job was everything he could have asked for, it certainly was draining.

Alistair was basking in his pity party when, all of a sudden, the rain stopped. He looked up from the ground, and for a moment believed that the Maker really did hear his prayers.

So, it came as a mild surprise when he saw that a vibrantly-colored umbrella hovered above him. Alistair turned his head to the left, bringing a hand to his ear to tug out an earbud.

A Dalish elf was holding it up, arm fully extended just so it could cover Alistair. Because of this, she became exposed to the rain. White hair clung to porcelain skin, and dark lips pursed in effort. Alistair glanced down at her feet, noticing that she was standing on her _tip-toes._

The first thing he did was chuckle in confusion. “You don’t have an umbrella,” the elf explained matter-of-factly. Violet eyes bore into Alistair behind a pair of circular glasses, but not in a harsh manner. Much unlike how the Chantry sisters always glared at him.

“I, uh, n-no, I don’t,” he sputtered stupidly. Her head tilted, immediately picking up on Alistair’s accent.

“You’re from Ferelden?”

“Yes, yeah, I am, yeah.” _Stop! Speaking! Like! An! Idiot!_

“Cool. What brings you up to Kirkwall?” She acted like there wasn’t a torrential downpour coming down on her. Rainwater collected on her eyelashes.

“I was, ah, hired for a new job here,” Alistair replied, then mentally kicked himself. _Of course you were hired for a new job! That’s what hiring is!_

“Oh yeah? That’s neat.” She took her free hand from her jacket pocket and held it out. “I’m Alaran.”

He grasped it, feeling the surprising warmth beneath her skin. Alaran’s hand was small, but he could feel callouses on her fingers and palms. From what, he wondered? “Alistair!” he said a little too loudly. She didn’t seem to mind, though, and smiled.

Alistair pulled out the other earbud and let them loosely hang around the collar of his shirt. “May I hold the umbrella?” he asked Alaran. “Just so you can get under it as well? I’d feel horrible if I let you keep it up while making small-talk.”

That made Alaran chuckle. Alistair caught a glimpse of dimples on the corner of her lips. “Yeah, sure,” she agreed, handing him the umbrella. He glanced up at it again, noticing that on the green backdrop were little mini dragons. Alistair repositioned so both he and Alaran could receive a small semblance of shelter. This meant that they had to get…close.

Aaaaand he was blushing.

“How long have you lived here, Alistair?” Alaran asked, absently tucking a strand of hair behind a pointed ear. The collar of a polka-dotted blouse peeked through the gray trench coat she wore.

“Uh, a little over a month.”

A silver brow perked up. “Really? And you still don’t have an umbrella? During this time of the year?”

He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “I know, I know. I’m just being stubborn. You know, I’m actually _hoping_ that whenever the clouds are getting ready to make it rain, they’ll see me and go, ‘That Alistair, he’s been through enough, don’t you think? Let’s give him a rainless day, just for once. He deserves it.’”

“I see,” Alaran drawled, a playful glint in her eye. “You don’t have to lie about it. Being a Fereldan, you probably think that the rain is some kind of luxury, like an endless shower.”

“Heyyy,” Alistair protested, but Alaran was already laughing at her own joke. “I’ll have you know that Ferelden is no longer the backwater country everybody thinks it is.” He sniffed surreptitiously. “All of our energy is powered by Mabaris running on treadmills. That makes it very clean, if not a little smelly.”

She laughed again, clear and crystalline. It wasn’t a _pretty_ laugh, so to say, but it was damn infectious. “You’re not laughing just to be nice to the poor, simple Fereldan man, are you?” he questioned Alaran.

“No, no, I’m not,” Alaran replied, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I just have an easy sense of humor. So congratulations! Anything you say will probably make me laugh. Look! I’m making my own self laugh right now.” It was true. Alaran giggled as she spoke.

Alistair snickered himself, then looked to the board that timed the metro’s arrival. _South Hightown: Next._ “It’s been saying that for ten minutes, now,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, it’s been an off-day,” Alaran grimaced. “You getting on the South Hightown metro?”

“Uh huh. You?”

“Same. I work right over there.” She pointed to the other side of the train tracks. Alistair followed her finger and saw that it was aimed at a nondescript music shop nestled between a café and a laundromat.

“Nice,” Alistair nodded.

“Where’s the place you work? I mean, I love Kirkwall and everything, but most people don’t willingly move here without getting offered something at least a _little_ lucrative.”

“You are correct. I, ah, got offered a position at an investment company as a press rep.” Why did he feel so awkward telling her this?

Both her brows quirked upwards, this time.  “Oh? Which company?” Alaran didn’t seem to be embarrassed asking Alistair more questions, so he figured he shouldn’t be uncomfortable. Then again, it _was_ an investment company, and they aren’t all that well-known in day-to-day life.

“Champion Investing Agency.”

Alaran’s eyes lit up. “No way? My dad is the CFO of that company!”

Oh. Well.

Alistair sputtered, unable to come up with an appropriate answer. Alaran laughed again, throwing her head back and throat bobbing up and down. “That’s freaking awesome, man! Champion is a good company. I interned there while I was going to college. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“I mean, I’m not asking you to,” Alistair shrugged, a sly smile spreading. “But if you’d like, I’d have no problem with it.”

“Sweet.”

“So, Alaran, what does a guy do around here for fun?” Alistair inquired, shifting on his feet. He thought he heard the metro approaching in the distance, but now wished that it wouldn’t come for a while longer.

“Hmm, well, if you want to drink cheap beer and get vomited on, then I suggest going to the Hanged Man in Lowtown. And if you want to learn about Kirkwall’s rich history, visit the Blooming Rose on the northeastern end of Hightown; there you can see women who’ve been working in that brothel since it was established during the height of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Alistair laughed alongside her. “Or,” she went on, “you can hit up the market district on an early Saturday afternoon. They got good bands and good stands.”

“Hey, that rhymed,” Alistair complimented. “And I’ve heard about the market. I just haven’t had the time to check it out.”

“It’s nice. I’m actually going to be performing there with a couple friends in the pavilion this Saturday.”

His interest was piqued even more. “That’s pretty neat. What do—”

The _ding ding ding_ of the metro interrupted their conversation. Alistair and Alaran turned their heads and watched as the transport pulled to a squealing halt. The doors opened and people pushed through, opening umbrellas every which way. One person’s hit the side of Alaran’s face as it expanded. She made a _“gah!”_ noise and adjusted her askew glasses.

“Sometimes I hate being this low to the ground,” Alaran grumbled, then started to walk into the cleared space. She didn’t motion for Alistair to follow, but he _was_ holding her umbrella, so he closed it, hurriedly shook off some of the wetness, and stepped inside. “Ooh, let’s snag some seats,” she instructed, and tugged on his jacket. They plopped down on some of the oddly colored seats. Maker, she was so little compared to him. Most elves were, but Alaran felt…different, in comparison.

“Oh, here,” he said, handing Alaran the umbrella. She hummed in thanks and took it. Alistair couldn’t help but glance down at the screen of her phone as she checked it. The picture on her lock screen was of a great giant Mabari. He sucked in an excited breath. Alaran shut the phone off and tucked it back in her coat pocket.

“What is it?”

“Oh—I, uh, I didn’t mean to be _rude,_ but I couldn’t help noticing that you had a Mabari.” Alistair scratched his damp scalp, wincing at the returned awkwardness. “Just the…the Fereldan came out in me. For a moment. Yeah.”

But Alaran was smiling understandably. She pulled her phone back out and pressed the home screen button, illuminating it. “That’s Bubba. He’s my best friend.”

“Yeah? Are you sure you’re not Fereldan?”

Alaran snorted as an answer. Alistair pulled out his own phone and turned it on, showing her the lock screen. “That’s my girl,” he said, silently cursing himself for describing his own Mabari as _my girl._

But Alaran didn’t mind. In fact, she gasped in delight. “She’s such a _cutie!_ What’s her name?”

“Phoebe,” he grinned.

“Aww, that’s so sweet. Did she move here with you?”

“Of course,” Alistair scoffed playfully. “But she hates the rain.”

“Oh, Bubs hates it too. Always has. He doesn’t like being clean. I have to sing a song to him every time it’s raining so he’ll go on a walk with me.”

Alistair slightly leaned back, light-hearted curiosity striking him. Recognizing what she had done, Alaran pursed her lips and tried to look stoic. “No. I’m not going to sing it.”

“So there’s a _specific_ song?”

“Y—no!” A pause. “Okay, there is. But it’s not open to the public at the time.”

“Dang. And here I thought we were friends. We’ve known each other for at _least_ seven minutes, if not less.”

She shrugged apologetically. “Sorry. That’s just how it is. Only people who I’ve been friends with for a minimum of an hour can listen to it.”

The typical fifteen-minute ride to Alistair’s stop slipped by in a moment. He was in the middle of describing the perfect way he makes macaroni and cheese when the metro slowed and announced its station. “Ope,” Alaran interrupted, looking at the sign and making a face. “This is where I get off, unfortunately.

For some reason, it had never registered to Alistair that they’d have to separate at some point. “Wait,” he abruptly said. Alaran paused in adjusting her purse and looked at him expectantly.

“Yes?”

“Would you like to, uh, maybe grab a cup of coffee or something?” Alistair found himself asking. Alaran’s neutral expression changed when she slowly smirked. The metro stopped and she stood.

“Yeah. What are you doing right now?”

That floored him a bit. He instinctively thought he was going to get a vague response and never hear from the white-haired elf again. “N-nothing,” Alistair sputtered, standing so quickly he conked his head on the railing that ran on the roof of the metro. “Ow.”

Alaran flashed a grin before quickly hiding it. “I know a good place not far from here. You don’t have to come; I’m just usually not the type of person to be unclear and passive.”

“That’s fine with me,” Alistair said, moving forward so she’d know he was serious. Alaran smiled and he blushed.

They stepped back out into the rain. She snapped the umbrella open and handed it to Alistair. He held it above the two of them, letting a part of his outside shoulder get rained on so his newfound date could have complete coverage.

Maybe he’d hold off on getting an umbrella of his own for a while, if it meant that he got to share one with Alaran.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another AU that I wanna expand onnnnnn


	30. Rain

Sheets twisted around her form, clinging to the body of a woman that no book, poem, or song could do justice. Rain drummed outside, steady and sure. Alaran was listening to it, staring out the window with sleepy eyes and a sleepier smile. The outside world was dreary and cold, but Solas knew what this kind of weather always did to her. Half-dreaming imaginations swirled inside her mind, forming and dissipating like the rain.

Goosebumps pricked on Alaran’s porcelain skin, so Solas wrapped his arm more tightly around her. A soft sigh escaped past her lips, warming the spot on his bare chest where her head rested on. He was growing tired, too, but wanted to stay awake just so he could continue gazing at her for a little longer. One of his hands found its way onto her scalp, where his fingers gently brushed against her silky white hair.

Did she know just how…breathtaking she was? Solas’ eyes roamed over every inch of her face that was visible to him. He soaked in the silver lashes that dusted across enrapturing violet eyes, the sculpted brow that always had a tendency of giving her real emotions away, the shape of her nose with the small little tip at the end. Then there were her lips that reminded Solas of dark berries in winter, the faded scar on her cheekbone, and ears that twitched more often than not.

But there was so much _more._ Alaran’s character was the pages of an epic story come to life, stitching together a person who held the weight of the world on her shoulders and carried it without complaint. Guiding that world, leading it, creating it. And yet…

And yet she enjoyed the sound of the rain, the smell, the sight. The feeling it produced. Alaran was real. So very real. People forgot that. _History_ would forget it. Time would slowly scrub away her humanity until nothing was left but a polished sculpture of the ideal leader.

But Solas would not forget.

 


	31. Good Day

“So?” Varric quietly murmured to Hawke. They stood next to each other near the entrance of the Champion’s gardens, regarding the small figure quietly sitting on a bench and reading a book. She donned a large, floppy hat that shielded her from the heat of the Kirkwall sun, even though she never once burned. “What kind of day is she having?”

“A better one,” Hawke quietly answered. “She ate today and wasn’t sick. Cracked a few jokes. Only had one coughing fit, and even that was short.”

Varric smiled, but it was more bittersweet than happy. “That’s good.” A heavy pause. “What was Blondie’s verdict?” It was a struggle to make sure his voice didn’t crack.

Hawke’s voice didn’t crack, either, but it got a few octaves lower to hide the pain. “Between the seizures and the breathing fits…Varric, she’s not going to be here much longer.”

The statement merely vocalized what they had all known for some time. It didn’t make Varric feel any better. But he put on a brave face and walked forward, up to Alaran. She turned her head to him when he put his hand on her bony, narrow shoulder and smiled.

“Hey, Al,” Varric easily greeted. “How’s it going?”

She set her sketchpad and charcoal aside and smirked. Al’s face alone gave away her visible illness. Her cheekbones were sallow and dark circles rimmed her violet eyes. “It’s going well, Varric. And you?”

Varric took a seat beside her, ignoring how frail she was compared to him. “Not bad. I had a good breakfast, listened to Aveline and Anders bicker for a while, got some work done for the Merchant’s Guild.”

Alaran softly snorted. “That sounds pretty boring, if you ask me.”

“The good days usually are the boring ones, Al.”

She gently laid her hand over his and gave it a light squeeze. Varric’s throat started to burn for some odd reason. “You look sad, today,” Alaran noted. Violet eyes searched his face in worry. _Worry._ Maker, how could she worry about him when she was the one dy—

Varric had to look away. Shame was sharp in his chest. “Oh, Varric.” Alaran took off her hat so she could rest her weary head on his shoulders. He moved his arm so he could draw her close to him while he held back unwanted tears. Shit. Shit. Since when did Varric care so much about her?

Since when had he grown to love her like his own?

“Look,” Alaran said, drawing his attention to her sketchpad. “What do you think of it?”

His chuckle scraped against a raw throat. “I think it’s one of the best drawings I’ve ever seen.”

“Liar,” Al smirked. “Though, I do have to admit I’m pretty funny. Fenris would make a very good lantern in the dark, if need be. You know, because of his tattoos?” She flipped a page and Varric laughed at its contents again. “And here’s what Hawke would look like if he was a Mabari. I think I got the proportions accurate.”

“Yeah, his legs would be stumpy.”

Al continued to show Varric sketches she had done, both funny and beautiful. How was it possible for someone to have such talent?

He read to her when she started feeling tired. They sat together under a warm spring day, enjoying the sunlight and the smell of fresh grass in the garden. Isabela and Merrill came to visit later on, followed by Fenris, Aveline and Donnic. Al sat there listening to them talk. She liked doing that; a small smile flickered on her face as their inane and pointless conversations filled the air.

Choir Boy came with a bouquet of flowers for her in the evening. He liked Al, in the beginning, always blushing and stammering whenever she spoke to him. Now he treated her like an old friend, hiding the sadness behind blue eyes.

Al could still see their pain. She was too smart not to. But she hardly said anything about it. Al had accepted her situation, and only hoped that they would too after she passed.

Hawke came with Anders when the light started to dwindle. Blondie checked her breathing, checked her eyes, checked everything. It wasn’t to see if there had been any improvement; it was just the routine. Al let him do his work with ease, used to the poking and prodding more than she should have been.

Isabela braided Al’s hair and Merrill placed flowers in between white strands. Hawke dramatically reenacted a fight scene with an equally undramatic Fenris, and Alaran clapped at the end of it. When dinner was brought out, she picked at the food on her plate while everyone pretended not to notice.

Aveline eventually rounded everyone up and chased them out of the estate. Al got a kiss on her bony cheek by each of them before they left. The stars were out, by then, faint and distant compared to the full moon shining down on the gardens.

Shining down on Al. And for a moment, with her hair glowing with moonlight and stars captured in violet eyes, Varric swore she transcended mortality.

“Goodnight, Varric,” Al whispered as she hugged him. Her words were lucid, were _her._

“Night, kiddo,” he said back. Al left him, supported by Garrett for the initial walk across the parlor floor before being picked up by him when they reached the staircase. He carried her with gentleness, with love. Those shoulders weren’t usually that upright, but when they held Alaran they were.

Varric left the estate, scents of lavender hanging on his shoulders.

-

Alaran was found in the garden the next day, as still as the gray morning light. She had put her floppy hat on and rested at the bench. An unopened sketchbook sat at her side, and charcoal dropped at her feet clad in too-big socks.

When Varric was awoken by a knock on his door, he knew Al had left them.

They buried her on the Storm Coast. There was a hillside Al loved that was thoroughly picked clean of elfroot, no thanks to her. It had soil instead of sand, so she could be laid to rest without disturbance.

Merrill crowned her with lavender. Isabela dressed her in white. Aveline lined the casket with dark blue linen. Anders constructed a small stack of stones to mark her grave. Fenris placed a pouch of dried apples in her hand and Sebastian conducted the service.

There were more people that came, too. Bodahn and his boy rightfully attended, as did Gamlen. Carver’s eyes were red-rimmed the whole time, and Cullen Rutherford couldn’t stop his throat from bobbing up and down. Lirene the Fereldan shop owner handed out handkerchiefs, and even a couple of workers from the Blooming Rose were there, clinging to each other while they softly sobbed. Members from the Carta risked being around Aveline and Donnic to pay their respects. Dockworkers, elves, Tal-Vashoth—people from all walks of life had come to see Alaran one last time.

The sun was bright and gulls cried over ocean waves as dirt covered a casket that would never be opened again.

Hawke left his socks on her feet.

Varric kept the sketchbook. He figured Al wouldn’t mind if he held onto it. And with the next few weeks—the next few years—Varric knew he’d need something to give him a good laugh.

-

“This Birdie,” Solas said as they walked through the Hinterlands, “who was she?”

“Elusive,” Cassandra called a bit sourly from ahead. “Some wonder if she was real at all.”

“Oh, she was real, Seeker,” Varric chuckled. After all this time, the thought of that white-haired elf still tugged at his heart. “Real, and amazing.”

“The book stopped mentioning her,” Solas continued. “I was just wondering what happened. And I can’t believe I’m the only one.”

Varric sighed. “She died, Chuckles. Got real sick one day and didn’t get better. Nothing could be done.”

Cassandra glanced over her shoulder, eyes sharp with curiosity. “What was her name, if I may ask?” Solas inquired.

“Al,” Varric replied. The nickname felt heavy on his tongue. “Alaran, I mean. Her name was Alaran.”

Solas slowed to a stop. When Varric looked back to the apostate, he was surprised to see a look of utter sadness. He gripped his staff for support as too-old eyes gazed upon something Varric couldn’t see.

“You knew her, Chuckles?” Varric asked, unsure if he wanted to hear an answer.

After a moment, Solas straightened and began walking again. “Once,” he replied. “A long time ago.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'( I made myself choke up writing this.


End file.
